


Tourist: A Love Song

by xErised



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Artist Harry Potter, Draco Malfoy in the Muggle World, Emotional Roller Coaster, Getting Together, M/M, Mention of Mental Illness, Musician Draco Malfoy, Mutual Pining, New York City, Post-Hogwarts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-17
Updated: 2019-02-23
Packaged: 2019-10-30 07:07:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 30,474
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17824193
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xErised/pseuds/xErised
Summary: Harry is in New York City looking for inspiration for his next collection of paintings. He’s not expecting inspiration to appear in the form of a black-haired Draco Malfoy playing the guitar and singing with such a beautiful voice.





	1. New York City

**Author's Note:**

> This chapter is set in New York City, late September in 2002 — a year after the 9/11 attacks. I didn’t want to mention the attacks due to its sensitive nature, but my American beta felt very strongly that it should be acknowledged, since in this story’s timeline, Draco was in NYC when it happened.
> 
> "9/11 can upset people, but anyone who is likely to be upset by it would be more agitated if it went unacknowledged, especially after learning that the fic takes place on the first anniversary of the attacks."
> 
> After considering her thoughts and her valuable input, I’ve decided to include Harry and Draco having a very brief conversation about it in the Brooklyn Bridge scene. Please exercise discretion when approaching that scene, or feel free to skip it altogether if you are not comfortable with reading about 9/11. The attacks are not mentioned anywhere else.
> 
> Thank you for giving this story a chance.

* * *

As the sound of a guitar comes through the wall of his flat in Muggle New York City, Harry looks up from the photographs spread out on his coffee table. Smiling, he returns to his photos of the city, although his attention is already drifting away to the faint music coming from next door. As usual, his neighbour is kicking things off with warm-ups, comprising of repetitive scales and chords.

It’s Harry’s fourth day here in Manhattan as a tourist, and he still hasn’t glimpsed this mystery musician. His hands hover above his photos, before dropping. Knowing that he can’t concentrate on anything else when his neighbour is practicing, he sighs in amused resignation and leans back on the sofa, linking his fingers behind his head. He closes his eyes, his grin widening when he imagines tendons shifting beneath warm skin with each strum, and long fingers dancing along the neck of a guitar, hitting each chord with precision and skill. He could be Harry’s type — tall and blond. Does this mystery bloke close his eyes when he sings, especially for songs brimming with soul and emotion? 

Harry knows he lives alone and is British, going by the accent discernible even through his singing. He’s definitely a wizard too, as this is a magical building — unlike the Ministry of Magic, MACUSA places strict restrictions on the residences of foreign wizarding folk in order to reinforce the separation between wizards and No-Majs. There’s also a high chance that he’s gay too, as Harry chose a gay-friendly location (although he did run into a straight couple at the lift yesterday).

The guitar stops playing. Harry leaves the living room and heads out to the balcony (which is magicked to be much larger than the fire escapes in No-Maj buildings) of his rented high-rise flat, where he can best hear the singing. When the music starts, he casts a sound amplifying charm towards his neighbour. Harry sits down on a chair, facing the sprawling Manhattan skyline.

His lips tugged up into a dreamy smile, Harry removes his glasses, rests his elbows on the railing of the balcony, lays his head on his arms and closes his eyes. He lets himself drift away with the flawless running notes of the guitar, as fluid and calming as water flowing gently over rocks in a waterfall. When paired with that voice, as smooth and melodic as the guitar itself, well, that’s enough to make Harry weak in the knees. The voice isn’t deep or gruff; it has a light and captivating quality to it, and something about it makes Harry want to curl up in bed and fall asleep to this man serenading him.

Harry doesn’t recognise all of the songs — his own music tastes are rather limited to rock and punk, so it’s a rather refreshing change, listening to music stripped down to only a voice and an acoustic guitar. His neighbour’s music is a mix of pop and rock, and Harry whispers along to the words when he knows them. The pop songs, however, aren’t his cup of tea, but it’s how the voice sounds — yearning and emotional, as if caressing a lover — that is entirely mesmerising. Harry reckons that his neighbour is smiling as he sings sometimes, and he’s keen to know if his smile is as beautiful as his voice.

Imagine Harry’s surprise when on his first night here, he was greeted with this particular voice singing through the walls. His initial irritation soon dissolved into wonder. The voice returned the next morning, and after a brilliant rendition of Oasis’s “Wonderwall”, Harry couldn’t help but clap. There was no response, and he ended up feeling rather silly. He thought he might have alarmed the bloke with his enthusiasm, but last night, the singing started again, this time louder and more confident, and Harry was beaming when he ended with “Wonderwall”.

Harry wishes he could sing.

But he can paint, so he reckons that counts for something.

A gust of September wind glides across his skin, and he tugs the sleeves of his jumper over his hands. Harry wears his glasses, and summons the Omnioculars from the corner of the balcony. This device — similar to the one that he uses at Quidditch games — is provided by the building, allowing the user to zoom in or out, enjoying spectacular views of Manhattan. He lifts the Omnioculars to his eyes and gazes at the scenery, the soft music playing as he absorbs the late afternoon view. Amongst the towering skyscrapers, the iconic Chrysler Building and Empire State Building are easily distinguishable in the horizon. Nearer in the foreground is a jumble of buildings — perhaps residential brownstones and townhouses — of varying heights and shades of white, beige and brown. At the centre of the borough, there’s an enormous green space, bordered by buildings — that must be Central Park. Harry turns his head side to side, taking in the Hudson River and East River.

He is still getting used to the atmosphere and mood of the city. Compared to London, Americans are slightly friendlier, and everything is noisier here. However, he’s longing for a decent cup of tea, he really doesn’t understand tipping, and the subway is still a mystery waiting to be unravelled.

Despite his sightseeing and people-watching, he’s not on holiday. Harry puts down the Omnioculars, and glances at his bag of painting things nestled in a corner of the balcony. He’s hoping this trip would spark enough inspiration for his next collection of paintings. In fact, he isn’t sure what he’s looking for, but his instincts told him to take a break from London and see what lies across the pond.

So far, the only thing worth exploring is the voice coming from the adjacent flat.

Harry straightens up when the last chord from the guitar fades away, the singing trailing off into a hum. He claps, and the man laughs, delighted. Harry removes the amplifying charm and goes back inside, his mind buzzing as he stares at the wall opposite him. If his neighbour sounds this lovely behind a wall, how much better would it be if he were to sing to him in person?

Harry has thought about accidentally on purpose running into him when he leaves his flat, but what if reality is disappointing? What if Harry makes an absolute fool of himself and he never hears that voice again? Well, that’s the worst-case scenario, yeah? The best thing that could happen is making a friend. Although Harry enjoys solitude, especially when he’s painting, it would be nice to explore the sights with a local wizard. He could use the company too — he misses Ron and Hermione, it’s terribly strange having an adventure without them.

Right, that’s it. He doesn’t want to over-think things any further. He’s twenty-two, for Merlin’s sake, he can certainly handle going up to someone and complimenting his singing. Harry stands up, wipes his palms on the thighs of his jeans and tries to pat his hair flat, although it’s a lost cause. His hand is on the doorknob when the man speaks, and he presses his ear to the wall. The one-sided conversation tells Harry that he’s on the phone.

“I’ll be there. Mona’s, 224 Avenue B, at eight tomorrow. Yes. See you.” 

Harry frowns at the familiarity of the voice. How did he not notice this earlier? This discovery only spurs him on, and he leaves his flat. He hesitates in front of his neighbour’s door, suddenly feeling rather shy. Before he loses his nerve, he knocks, heart thudding with anticipation and a welcoming smile on his lips. 

The door swings open. It takes a few seconds for him to match the name to the face, and when he does, it feels as if his heart has stopped entirely.

_Draco Malfoy._

Malfoy’s smirk freezes and slides off when he locks eyes with Harry.

His thoughts thrown into a tangle of shock and disbelief, Harry takes a step back and gapes at the man who disappeared from wizarding Britain four years ago. There’s no mistaking the slate-grey eyes, the pointy chin and sharp cheekbones, but Malfoy has lost his most distinctive feature — his blond hair. His hair, clipped short, is dyed black. Even his eyebrows are black. There are two silver stud earrings on his left earlobe, and his attire is completely different; a black T-shirt with the words “The Eagles” on it, and dark-blue jeans with rips at the knees. Harry’s gaze flickers to Malfoy’s left forearm.

His Dark Mark is gone.

“You’re the one I’ve been singing for?” Malfoy says, his voice a papery whisper. “No, no…” he stutters, a white-knuckled hand gripping the doorjamb. He goes very still, his dazed eyes staring at a spot behind Harry. Harry turns to look, but there’s nothing. “No,” Malfoy repeats in distress, and Harry spins back. It’s as if he’s lost in a fog of memories; his reaction is beyond mere astonishment and shock.

“Malfoy? Hey, Malfoy.” Harry waves a hand in front of his face. “Are you alright?” he asks when grey eyes focus on him. The other man blinks rapidly, his head jerking back when Harry steps forward.

“What are you doing here? Are you looking for me?” Malfoy snaps, his eyes round with panic and his gaze darting all over the place, as if looking for an exit.

“No!” 

Malfoy’s lips curl into a familiar sneer at once, like a reflex action. “Go back, go away!” he snarls, and promptly slams the door in Harry’s face.

Stunned and speechless, Harry stands there for a moment, before scowling and banging on the door. He can hear Malfoy moving about inside, curious thumps and knocks. He calls Malfoy’s name twice, finally stopping when Malfoy shouts a silencing charm, cutting off all sounds coming from his flat. His shoulders slumping in defeat, Harry returns to his living room. He glances at the photos of the city — he was working on a theme for his paintings, but a restless energy rattles through him.

“I just saw Draco Malfoy,” he mutters, mind still reeling. “In Muggle New York City. Living beside me.” He fiddles with his photos, shifting them around and folding down the corners, just something for his hands to do. “Christ.” He takes off his glasses and presses the heels of his hands on his closed eyes, leaning back.

The last time he saw Malfoy was during the Trials four years ago, when Harry testified for his mother and him to keep them out of Azkaban. Lucius Malfoy, however, didn’t last a month in prison. Shortly after his death, the news reported the passing of Narcissa. Harry did spare a fleeting thought for Malfoy then, but he was too busy piecing himself back together after the War to do anything more.

Nowadays, Harry still sees the other Slytherins — Pansy, Blaise and Greg — during pub nights. Luna is going out with Greg, while Blaise just told Harry that he’s going to propose to Pansy soon. It took a long time and much effort on both sides for the Gryffindors and Slytherins to smooth over the fraught tensions of the war, even with Luna’s patient nudging, but they eventually put aside their respective reservations and formed a budding friendship, agreeing that the future mattered more than the past. Although Harry isn’t particularly close to the Slytherins, he can safely say they’re friends. The Slytherin wit and sarcasm really is quite amusing when you’re not at the receiving end. The first time Luna arrived with the Slytherins in tow, Harry steeled himself for Malfoy’s appearance too.

_“Where’s Malfoy?”_ he asked.

A long pause. Pansy looked away. _“I wish we knew.”_

It’s clear they still miss him dearly. Whenever Malfoy came up in conversation, their smiles would dim. Harry certainly didn’t wish for him to be homeless and hungry, but it was possible that he simply took whatever assets the Ministry didn’t seize and fled, perhaps to somewhere fancy like France. Honestly, Harry didn’t think much about Malfoy over the years.

Until today.

Harry gazes at the wall he shares with Malfoy. Once again, just like in Hogwarts, he feels the same magnetic pull towards him, now even more intense because of Malfoy’s sudden re-appearance. A jigsaw of questions bombard him about Malfoy’s recent life. He’s desperate to know more, but how can he? Malfoy’s door is firmly closed, so what can he—

Mona’s, 224 Avenue B. Tomorrow night at eight.

Harry presses his lips together in determination.

Sounds like a plan.

* * *

Harry likes Mona’s the moment he steps into the bar. It reminds him of his favourite pub — the Red Lion — a short walk away from Grimmauld Place.

He has a proper look around when he’s settled with a Hoegaarden at a corner of the wooden bar top. It’s cosy and dim, the lamps overhead casting a muted light on the surroundings and the exposed brick walls. There’s a staggering array of alcohol displayed at the bar, with the choice of available beers written on a chalkboard. He turns to the small stage. There is a piano and a drum set, with a glittering disco ball hanging at the side that looks awfully out of place. A vintage jukebox is tucked away beside the stage, but the music is overwhelmed by the conversations of the patrons, punctuated by loud guffaws and peals of laughter. Harry scans the tables; it appears that he’s the only one alone.

He vaguely wonders what Ron and Hermione are doing right now. 

When a raucous group crowds the bar, shouting out their orders, Harry shrinks back against the wall at his corner. Eventually, they return to the back rooms, and he hears the drone of the television. He hops off his stool and peers into the room — it appears to be some sort of game room with two pool tables and two dartboards. He goes back to his seat and nurses his drink, letting the energy and noise of Mona’s wash over him.

When Malfoy approaches the stage, his guitar slung on his back, Harry quickly faces the bar. He counts to five, and then edges a glance at Malfoy, who is taking out his guitar from its case. Merlin, it’s bloody strange seeing him with black hair. He’s dressed in black jeans and a navy-blue button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. Harry cranes his neck, glimpsing Malfoy’s left forearm — his Mark really has vanished.

As Malfoy sets up, Harry flips through his sketchbook. He huffs in frustration at the half-finished drawings of buildings and scenery. He spent a few hours that afternoon at a café in Central Park with his sketchbook, watercolours and canvas, but the only thing he achieved was sharing a shy smile with a rather fit blond bloke two tables away, and stuffing himself full of pastries and weak tea.    

Inspiration can strike anywhere, but it’s clear it hasn’t been anywhere near Harry recently.

It didn’t help that distracting, Malfoy-related thoughts were simmering at the back of his mind throughout the day. Harry looks at Malfoy again, who is adjusting the microphone stand. It’s surreal, knowing that Malfoy is living the Muggle life in New York. Does he play gigs to support himself, or is he doing this as a bit of fun?

With his identity as Malfoy revealed, the previous comings and goings of his neighbour took on a new importance. Malfoy’s nightly performances explained the odd hours of his return. Ever since Harry moved in, he didn’t hear anyone visiting Malfoy, and that day, there was no singing; in fact, his flat seemed unnaturally silent — Malfoy must still be maintaining his Silencing charm.

“So, how are we doing tonight?”

Malfoy’s voice jerks Harry from his thoughts. Harry turns to the stage, keeping his head low and tugging the hood of his sweatshirt over his head.

A chorus of cheers ring out from the crowd. “Better now that you’re here, handsome!” a girl calls out from the front, surrounded by her giggling friends. Malfoy laughs, his face lighting up in a way Harry has never seen before. Malfoy winks at her and sits down on the high stool, guitar in his arms. He takes a sip of his drink and positions his hands on his guitar. The crowd quietens down.

There’s a lull of expectation in the air.

Malfoy begins to play, and Harry closes his sketchbook at the starting chords of Oasis’s “Wonderwall”.

If Harry thought his singing was wonderful through the wall, it’s nothing compared to now. Malfoy’s voice is clear and melodious, rising and falling through the different pitches of the verses, caressing the long drag of words at the chorus. His elegant fingers slide between each chord with ease, and Harry stares at Malfoy’s carefree expression as he sings. 

The room bursts into applause and whoops when the song finishes, and Malfoy grins, inclining his head. For the next forty-five minutes, Malfoy is charismatic and funny, interacting with the crowd, indulgently flirting with the women at the front. He takes requests — a waitress pops scraps of paper into a small basket near his stand — and celebrates birthdays and anniversaries. Being the centre of attention suits him; he wears that familiar confidence and charm like a second skin, like how he held court at the Slytherin table in Hogwarts.

_Bloody hell, Malfoy’s hot._ Harry’s cheeks heat up at the stray thought _._ He cannot reconcile this black-haired Malfoy with the Malfoy he knew — pale and blond, shame-faced and shackled at the Trials; screaming into Harry’s ear as they hurtled out of the Fiendfyre; terrified and trembling as he exposed his Dark Mark to Dumbledore at the Astronomy Tower; sneering at Harry and his friends at Hogwarts. 

It’s Malfoy — familiar and provocative, yet different and intriguing, and it’s bizarre how much Harry wants to know more about this Malfoy, wants him to grin at him like that. Harry’s drink is neglected, his hood pushed down, and he has scooted forward in his chair as he enjoys the sight of Malfoy in the spotlight, mesmerising the entire room with his music. It’s brilliant how expressive his singing is — his voice as low and intimate as rustling bedsheets for love songs, upbeat and cheerful for happy songs, yet poignant and emotional for ballads.

Harry tips his head to the side and smiles dreamily when Malfoy launches into “Can’t Take My Eyes Off You”, a song that Hermione and Ron danced to at their engagement party. Transfixed, he leans forward eagerly, admiring the soft smile gracing Malfoy’s lips and his velvet-smooth voice giving life to the heartfelt lyrics.

“At long last love has arrived, and I thank God I’m alive,” Malfoy sings, grey eyes sweeping across the room…

…before landing on Harry.

Harry sucks in a breath and goes very still, his body tensing. Malfoy trails off, his fingers faltering on his guitar. His eyes are round with shock, his smile dimming. They stare at each other, and Harry cringes when people turn back to glance at him. Malfoy shakes himself out of his stupor, and with his gaze still locked on Harry, he continues singing without his guitar, his whisper trembling.

“You’re just too good to be true, can’t take my eyes off you.” 

Harry shifts uncomfortably in his seat, his face warming with embarrassment when someone nearby whispers behind their hand to a friend. He wheels around to the bar, his blush deepening when the bartender shoots him a curious look. He tugs his hood up, drains his beer and stares resolutely at his glass. The singing resumes, but he doesn’t move. Merlin, of course Malfoy would react to him; they have so much baggage between them that it could fill up an airport. Maybe he should leave, the last thing he wants to do is disrupt Malfoy’s set.

“Hey there,” the bartender greets Harry with an easy smile, her curiosity morphing into outright interest. “How are you tonight?”

“I’m alright, thanks.”

“I’m Marjorie,” she says. Her strawberry blonde hair is tied into a neat bun, and her twinkling blue eyes, which remind him of Dumbledore, dart between Malfoy and him. There’s a small tattoo of two intertwined red roses on the inside of her wrist. She nods at his empty glass. “Can I get you another one?”

Harry hesitates. “No, I probably should be leaving, anyway,” he says politely, grabbing his sketchbook and standing up.

“British, eh? Just like Draco,” Marjorie says, and the casual mention of Malfoy’s name is enough to make Harry sit down. “You sure you don’t want that drink?” she asks again, arching a brow.

Harry’s eyes flicker to Malfoy, who is halfway through another song and looking everywhere else but the bar. Marjorie is bound to know more about Malfoy. “Yes, I’d like that. Thank you. I’m Harry.”

“Nice to meet you, Harry,” she says, and then bustles off to prepare his drink. She returns promptly, wiping down the bar and setting it in front of him. She jabs a thumb towards Malfoy. “Good-lookin’, eh?”

_He looks better as a blond._ Harry bites his lip and shrugs, not wanting to give too much away. “How long has he been singing here?”

Marjorie scrunches up her button nose as she recalls. “For two and a half years? He comes in every Thursday. Tuesdays are jazz nights, and they’re really popular.” She pauses, giving him a knowing look that is similar to Hermione’s perceptiveness. “But you’d prefer Thursdays, huh?”

“Er…”

“You know him, don’t you?” Marjorie perks up. “Are you an ex? He’s so mysterious about everything, as if he has some scandalous past.” She laughs, and then regards Harry with renewed interest. “I saw how he looked at you, and you could barely take your eyes off him. Are you his ex?”

_Wait, so Malfoy really fancies blokes?_ Harry shakes his head weakly. “No. Malfoy—“

She frowns. “Who’s Malfoy? His last name is Black. Draco Black.”

_Oh._ “Sorry. We went to school together, and it’s been years since we saw each other.”

“That’s it?” Marjorie says, her face falling.

“Yep, that’s it.” He takes a gulp of his beer. “I didn’t know he could sing. Did he go for lessons?”

Marjorie looks to his right. “He’s coming this way, so why not ask him yourself?” She winks at him, and then turns to Malfoy. “Your usual?” she asks. He nods, pulling up a terse smile. Marjorie raises her eyebrows at him, before moving away.

Malfoy sits down a few stools away. At a loss, Harry clears his throat and stares at the beads of condensation trickling down his glass. He rubs a fingertip on the well-worn grain of the table, and then darts a look at Malfoy, who glances at him at the same time. Malfoy frowns, a steely challenge sparking in his eyes. Harry lifts his chin and meets his gaze head-on, that familiar combative heat surging in him. If Malfoy wants him to leave, he’s going to be sorely disappointed.

They look away at the same moment.

Marjorie returns with Malfoy’s red wine. She’s about to say something, but a server arrives with a flurry of orders.

Harry toys with his damp coaster. He wants to talk to Malfoy, but he keeps thinking about Malfoy looking like a cornered Kneazle last night when he saw Harry again. He won’t learn anything new about Malfoy if he keeps avoiding Harry. Even though Harry has no idea what to say, it’s impossible for them to ignore each other — they’ve always been hyper-aware of the other’s presence. Finally, Malfoy drains his drink and heads towards him.

Harry sits up straight and eyes Malfoy as he comes closer.

“Potter,” he greets, his face giving nothing away. 

“Malfoy. Or should I say, Black?” Harry replies, his tone equally even.

Malfoy glances at Marjorie. He squares his shoulders, his voice sharp. “What are you doing here?”

Harry could lie. He could say he was wandering around the area and popped into Mona’s on a whim. But why should he? He has nothing to hide. Also, Malfoy isn’t stupid — he’ll see right through Harry’s excuses.

“I want to watch you play. I like your singing.”

Malfoy starts at the compliment. For once, he’s not ready with a scathing comeback, and Harry gives himself a point. Malfoy frowns, a hand rising to fiddle with his earrings. “I’m sure you’ve seen enough.”

“No,” Harry says. “I’m staying until you’re finished.” He glares at Malfoy, the stubborn frown between his brows and the certainty in his voice telling him there’s nothing he can do about it. Malfoy narrows his eyes, and without another word, he whirls around and stalks back to the stage. Despite himself, Harry’s gaze drops to the curve of Malfoy’s arse and the long, lean line of his body.

Malfoy’s transformation is astonishing — he slips on his performer’s façade like wearing a cloak. With every song and warm laugh, Harry relaxes. When the room bursts into a particularly rousing chorus of cheers and applause, the flush of happiness and pride radiating from Malfoy is lovely. _This is a moment worth remembering._ Harry grabs his sketchbook, and puts pencil to paper. The cacophony of the bar fades away, and his world narrows to his art, Malfoy’s singing and the picture Malfoy paints on stage. It’s the best kind of focus; when Harry forgets about everything else and simply plunges himself into his work. The flow of his strokes are sure and smooth, and the sketch comes together wonderfully, with none of that second-guessing that has plagued him recently.

Time loses all meaning, and when he puts his sketchbook down, Malfoy is already starting his last song of the night. The side of Harry’s hand is stained a metallic grey with pencil marks. He stretches, rotating his neck, shoulders and right wrist.

“What’s this?” Marjorie asks. She tilts her head, trying to look at the sketch the right way round. “May I?” She gestures to the book.

Harry nods and ducks his head shyly. Although he went to art school and has held two exhibitions, he still can’t shake off his self-consciousness when someone is looking at his work in front of him. He’s hardly as good as Dean, or his other classmates and mentors. Plus, he specialises in landscape paintings; his experience with portrait drawings extends only to a few modules in school.    

“It’s beautiful,” Marjorie remarks, her eyes widening and her words tinged with awe. “Wow. He looks so happy, so… wow.”

A warmth spreads in Harry at her praise. “Thanks.”

He peers at his sketch of Malfoy. His expression is wonderfully open, full lips stretched into a playful smirk. Malfoy’s features on the sketch aren’t as refined — Harry should’ve drawn his nose longer and his jaw sharper, but he’s captured the essence of Malfoy the performer — the genuine, light-hearted joy and relaxed elegance.

“You just gotta colour his hair in,” Marjorie says, tapping a fingernail on Malfoy’s head. “Do you do this for a living?”

“I paint,” Harry says. He doesn’t like the pretentiousness of _“I’m an artist.”_

“You should show it to him. I bet he’d like it.” 

“No!” Harry yelps. Marjorie blinks, surprised at his vehemence. “Er, some people don’t like to be sketched,” he hedges. Merlin, it’s bad enough that he tracked Malfoy to Mona’s, what would he think if he knew Harry was drawing him, like some weird stalker? 

“Are you sure you were just classmates?” Marjorie asks.

Luckily, Harry is saved from answering when a customer calls for her, and he uses this chance to discreetly shrink his sketchbook and slip it into the back pocket of his jeans. Someone clears his throat beside him — it’s Malfoy. He places an empty wine glass on the bar. “Still here?” He sweeps Harry’s surroundings with a searching eye. “What were you doing? I saw you writing something.”

Harry thinks fast. “Lyrics. I was writing some lyrics that I liked.”

“Hmm.” Malfoy looks unconvinced, but he leaves it at that. He waves at Marjorie, flashing her a warm smile. “See you next week.” Marjorie looks up from the beer tap and grins back, waggling her eyebrows at Harry. Instead of responding, Malfoy grabs his jacket from the coat stand near the door and leaves the bar, with Harry trailing after him.

Malfoy’s features rearrange into a stony expression as they walk, his performer’s front disappearing entirely. Harry shoves his hands into his pockets, feeling quite lost. When they round a corner, Malfoy’s eyes flicker towards him. An awkward tension thrums, stretching between them, and Harry falls back on the one thing that he’s sure would elicit a positive reaction.  

“You sing really well,” he says.

His sincerity must’ve shown, for Malfoy’s lips quirk up into a brief smirk. “Thank you.”

They stop at a pedestrian crossing, and Harry looks up at the name of the road. “Avenue B,” he says, snorting. “And here I was, thinking that the avenues only ended with numbers. It just makes things even more difficult.” He got lost on his way to Mona’s — despite the grid-like layout of the city, things still get pretty damn confusing sometimes, especially with the dizzying swarms of people and traffic. Everything is louder and more disorienting than in London. 

“Why are the avenues so bloody long? I was at Fifth Avenue near the Met, and it never ends!” Harry exclaims. The light turns green, and he continues to rant as they cross the road. “When you ask people for directions, they point vaguely and say it’s a ‘couple of blocks’ away, which ends up being a half hour walk, when I could’ve just taken the subway.” Indignant, Harry shakes his head. “No one’s gonna ‘couple of blocks’ me anymore!”

Malfoy’s lips twitch into a glimmer of a smile. When they deviate from the way to the subway, Harry frowns. “Hey, isn’t the station over there?”

“I may be living like a Muggle, but I’m still a wizard,” Malfoy drawls, ducking into a quiet alleyway. “I Apparate home from here, but I’m rather peckish. There’s a place near my flat that I like.”

A long pause.

“Can I come along?” Harry asks.

“What else was I expecting? You stayed for my entire show,” Malfoy says, sighing in exasperation. He mentions the subway nearest to their place, including the exact exit, avenue and street before Apparating away. Harry follows suit, Apparating near the station. He walks to their arranged spot, and Malfoy brings him to a food truck selling Indian food.

Harry blinks in surprise.

The vendor puts away his mobile and stands up when Malfoy approaches.

“Hello! Your usual?” he asks, pulling on a pair of gloves.

“Yes. Thank you.” Malfoy slings his guitar across his back. 

“And what about you?” the vendor asks Harry, as he pulls a flatbread towards him.

“Whatever he’s having. Thanks.”

“Sure. Two chicken tikka rolls coming up.”

Harry watches the vendor prepare their food. He sprinkles handfuls of marinated grilled chicken cubes and lettuce over their flatbread, drizzles sauce on the chicken, rolls the flatbread up and wraps it in paper. As he works, he engages Malfoy in superficial conversation about his gigs and gripes about the increasing cost of living, with Malfoy nodding and answering politely.

After paying, they head home, eating as they walk. Harry tears away the top edge of the paper. He bites into his roll; the chicken is tender and full of flavour, while the sauce is rich with spices.

“S’really good,” Harry says around a crunch of lettuce.

Malfoy agrees, a small smile playing on his lips.

When they’re under a street lamp, Harry sneaks a glance at Malfoy’s hair, which is an unsurprisingly unnatural inky black. Harry has dark hair too, but his hair has shades of brown, especially under lights. Malfoy’s hair is short, like sixth year of Hogwarts, and once again, it's bloody disconcerting seeing Malfoy as a brunet. Harry tugs absently on his own messy hair — he has kept it longer, like his fourth year.

"Why is your hair black?" Harry blurts out, unable to hold it in any longer.

"Wanted a change," Malfoy replies at once, as if he was expecting it.

"Yeah, I figured." Harry gestures to their surroundings and raises his brows at the guitar.

"I prefer it like this," Malfoy says, tight-lipped. He turns up his collar and lowers his chin, hiding half of his face. He increases his pace, and Harry walks faster to keep up, careful to avoid stepping on the two people sleeping on the street below their flats. Malfoy jabs the button for the lift, and then frowns at Harry, as if his very presence is an affront. A tight knot of annoyance grows in the pit of Harry's stomach while they ride the lift in stony silence. Harry recalls Malfoy's bright laughter, and it rankles, knowing that his existence is enough to toss Malfoy into this smog of displeasure and agitation.

When they are at their doors, Harry snaps, "Why are you so bloody upset at me? I know we were never friends, but I haven't seen you in years. Can't we just have a decent conversation, for once?"

Something in Malfoy's uneasy expression hardens, and his lips tick up in a smile devoid of humour. "It's not you, per se. It's what you remind me of." Without waiting for an answer, he retrieves his keys and unlocks his door.

"Wait!" Harry says, and to his surprise, Malfoy pauses. Harry doesn’t know what he wants to say; all he knows is that he wants to see more of him — not this sullen, reserved Malfoy, but the radiant Malfoy who sings and plays the guitar. It makes no bloody sense, but Merlin, he does. That pull towards Malfoy, tingling just under Harry's skin, has lain dormant for years, and it's now returning in full force.

"What are you doing tomorrow?" Harry asks impulsively.

Malfoy looks conflicted. “Besides wondering what you’re doing here?” He opens the door, and enters his flat. "Goodnight, Potter," he whispers, his eyes midnight with sadness.

Harry is left staring at Malfoy's closed door.

He sighs. It's not like he was expecting anything else. Harry steps inside his flat and flops onto his sofa, gazing at their shared wall.

_"It's what you remind me of."_

No prizes for guessing what Malfoy means.

Consumed with the need to talk to Ron and Hermione, Harry tears a page from his sketchbook and begins to write a letter: _You won't believe who I saw here. I saw Malfoy, except he has black hair and his Mark is gone. He's a musician now, and he's acting really—_

He stops.

He sounds like he's convinced that Malfoy is Up To Something again, and he doesn’t like it. Harry tries to put himself in Malfoy's shoes, for once. From what little he can see, Malfoy has carved out a peaceful life here, far away from his comfort zone of magic, pureblood heritage and Britain. How would he take it if Harry told his best friends, who would definitely tell the Slytherins? Certainly, they'd waste no time in banging down Malfoy's door, demanding answers and begging for him to come home.

No, he reckons Malfoy wouldn't like that at all.

Harry crumples up the paper and tosses it into the bin. He flips to his sketch of Malfoy. This is his first complete artwork in New York City.

And it's of Draco Malfoy.

Harry appraises the drawing. No one else in the magical world has seen Malfoy like this.

A strange thrill jolts in him. It's as if...

As if it's their little secret.

Harry grabs his pencil, its tip hovering over Malfoy's fringe in the sketch. Should he colour his hair black?

No. He shakes his head. Instead, he scrawls his signature at the bottom right corner of the page, signalling the conclusion of the piece.

In Harry's reality, Malfoy will always be blond.

* * *

Three days have passed, and Harry’s hope that Malfoy would open his door dwindles with each day. In fact, he’s so surprised when Malfoy’s door swings open that he simply stands there, his fist still in the air in mid-knock, wide eyes taking in Malfoy’s resigned expression and crossed arms. Grey eyes flicker to something behind Harry, as if he’s imagining something else, before settling on him. 

“What d’you want? You’ve been knocking for the past two days,” Malfoy mutters, huffing out a loud sigh, his exhale lifting up his fringe briefly. “You’re like a damn Crup without a bone.”

“I…” Harry drops his hand and fidgets. “I just wanna hear you sing again,” he says, lifting a shoulder.

The frown between Malfoy’s brows eases, and something in his closed-up expression softens. He shifts from foot to foot, looking uncertain. “Well, I wouldn’t mind some fresh air, and since I’m not working tonight… Hang on.” He closes the door and emerges shortly, a black leather jacket shrugged over his T-shirt.

They look at each other expectantly for a moment.

“Is there anywhere you’d fancy?” Malfoy asks. Harry shakes his head, his interest piqued about where Malfoy would take him. “I’m hungry, so how does pizza sound? I know a place.”

“Sure,” Harry agrees. They leave the building, and he squints in the afternoon sunlight. He pushes down the frisson surging through him when he takes Malfoy’s arm for a Side-Along. When they land, he follows Malfoy to a shop called Joe’s Pizza. They pause under the brown awning.

“Have you been here before?” Malfoy asks.

“No. It’s my first time in New York.”

“Allow me to welcome you to the city with a proper New York slice.” Malfoy steps towards the door. “We’re lucky, there’s usually a queue.”

A warm blast of air, rich with the mouth-watering scent of baking and herbs, greets Harry when they enter. He looks around at the well-worn, no-frills décor and the wall of celebrity photographs. After getting cheese slices served on paper plates, they settle down at seats facing a window looking out to the street, and tuck into their food.

“It’s brilliant,” Harry exclaims, grinning at Malfoy. He takes another large bite and chews happily on the stringy cheese, relishing the fresh and flavourful sauce.

A corner of Malfoy’s lips quirk up into a semblance of a smile. “Glad you like it.”

They eat in silence, with Harry sneaking glances at Malfoy every so often. It’s strange seeing him eat with his hands, although he still manages to do it so gracefully, dabbing his lips with a napkin every few bites while Harry has grease coating his fingertips and tomato sauce smeared on his mouth.

Outside, the weather is pleasant, and the streets busy. Harry winces at the sharp honk of a yellow taxi when a boy dashes across a street crossing. A rather handsome blond man with a nice arse, who is bending over to unlock a bicycle in a row of parked bicycles, catches Harry’s eye.

Harry says in an attempt at casual conversation, “That blond’s pretty fit.”

Malfoy scans the streets. “I don’t see a blond girl… oh,” he trails off, his eyes following Harry’s appreciative gaze when the bloke climbs onto his bicycle and rides away.

“Yeah, I like blonds. Blond men, in particular,” Harry says, with an easy smile.

Malfoy's eyes sharpen at his words, as if looking out for some hidden meaning or jibe, but he relaxes when it’s clear Harry meant nothing of that sort. Harry finishes his slice and wipes his fingers on a napkin. “You don’t mind, d’you?”  

Malfoy gathers his crumbs on the table and drops them on his empty plate, hesitating before he answers. “It would be quite hypocritical if I did, seeing that I prefer men, too.”

“Oh,” Harry says, feigning surprise, as he isn’t supposed to know about this, if not for Marjorie’s slip of tongue. “D’you write your own music?”

“Sometimes.”  

“Where do you go to write your songs?”

Malfoy looks out, eyes narrowing at a boisterous knot of tourists clutching maps, with cameras slung over their necks. “The city can be rather… trying at times, so I like to go somewhere—“

A memory zips across Harry’s mind — Malfoy sitting alone on the shores of the Great Lake in Hogwarts, leaning against a large tree, a rare and genuine smile on his face as he writes on his parchment. A laughing Ron, Harry and Hermione burst onto the scene, and Malfoy looked up, his smile twisting into his trademark sneer.

“Nature? Somewhere with nature?” Harry interrupts. “Central Park?”

“Not really. Central Park is rather overrated, although it’s certainly worth a visit if you’ve never been.” Malfoy indicates the door with his chin. “Shall we?” He stands up, and Harry does the same. “Have you heard of the High Line?”

“Nope.” Harry holds the door open for Malfoy. “Surprise me,” he says, his lips quirking up into a playful smile and a hint of challenge in his voice. Malfoy arches a brow, looking rather amused despite himself. He walks on, and Harry falls into step beside him. They pass by Starbucks branches, fashion boutiques, hair salons and numerous eateries selling different cuisines.

“So how many songs have you written?” Harry pipes up.

“Not many. Even if I do write new material, I rarely perform them. The audience prefers covers, something they can sing along to.” Malfoy quickly changes the topic. “What places have you visited?”

“Er…” Harry casts his mind back to his trip so far. “The art museums, mostly — MoMA, Guggenheim, the Met, and the New York museum, which I really liked,” he says, counting them off his fingers. “Central Park too, plus a cruise around the island, and I saw the Statue of Liberty.”

Malfoy raises his eyebrows. “Museums? I wouldn’t have thought you’d be keen on museums.”

Harry frowns, trying to figure out whether he was insulted.

They turn onto Gansevoort Street. Malfoy steps over a discarded page of the _New York Times_ fluttering on the ground. “And where are Weasley and Granger? Thought you’d…” He stops in his tracks. His face pales, his eyes glaze over, as if he’s imagining something. Malfoy’s right hand rises, as if out of its own accord, to grip the spot on his left forearm where his Dark Mark would be.

“Malfoy?” Harry whispers. He repeats his name, louder, and this brings the other man back to his senses. Malfoy’s lips thin into a line, and he hurries ahead. Harry catches up, his questions about his behaviour wilting at the unease on Malfoy’s face.

“If you were gonna ask about Ron and Hermione, they’re not with me because I’m not here on holiday. I’m here for work,” Harry explains. Malfoy doesn’t reply; instead, he keeps his head down as they walk past a lift. They begin to climb a flight of stairs.

“For work? So I assume you’ll be running off to MACUSA next?” Malfoy asks.

“MACUSA? Why would I—“ Harry laughs in disbelief. “I’m not an Auror!” He pauses on the top step, meeting Malfoy’s eyes. His smile fades. “I’ve done enough saving, don’t you think?”

Malfoy makes a restrained sound under his breath, and looks away from Harry’s searching gaze. “We’re here. The High Line,” he declares, gesturing to the setting with an outstretched arm. 

Harry's eyes widen as he absorbs the scene, his mouth turning up into a slow and delighted grin. A potpourri of gardens — lush with woodland trees, shrubs and ferns — greets him. There are pockets of flowers in blooming splashes of rich, stunning colour — purple, yellow, blue and pink. Bees thread through the flowers, and a bird lands on the nearest bench, pecking on some discarded bread. The shrubs rustle in the gentle breeze, and Harry moves closer to the scene, stepping onto the wooden boardwalk. He breathes in, his shoulders relaxing at the refreshing woodsy scent of plants and fresh aroma of flowers.

"Wow," Harry says on an exhale. He moves to a good spot where the light of the waning sun catches the view just right, and he tips his head to the side, imagining it framed in a painting. He snaps a picture with his camera, and hurries to another area, eager to get another perspective. 

It's Malfoy's turn to catch up with him. "You're welcome, by the way," he says dryly.

Harry laughs, smoothing over the previous tension in the air. His eyes dart from corner to corner, and he scoots away to another garden. "It's beautiful." He steps back, tilts his camera up, and takes another photo, this time capturing the nondescript and blandly coloured buildings flanking the High Line, which is such a stark departure from the riot of colours and nature of the urban park.

Malfoy waits until he has taken his fill of pictures, then he looks at Harry, tapping a finger on his lower lip. "So what is it that you do?"

Harry puts his camera away. "I paint, and I'm here looking for inspiration for my next exhibition."

Malfoy blinks rapidly. "You… you paint? As in, you're a real painter, with the..." He raises a hand, pretending to hold a brush and sketching patterns in the air. "With the brushes and canvas and all?" 

"You sing? Like a real singer?" Harry asks, mimicking Malfoy's disbelief. He mimes playing a guitar. "With the voice and the songs and the guitar?" He drops the pretence at Malfoy's annoyed huff, and gestures to a bench with a nice view of the streets.

They sit down, and Harry grins at Malfoy's assessing gaze, as if he's imagining a brand new side of him. Eventually, Malfoy clears his throat. "I apologise if you were offended by my reaction, but I simply can't think of you sitting still in front of an easel for hours on end. You splattered with paint and throwing brushes around, that I can imagine, but..." he trails off, rubbing a dark eyebrow with a thumb, and then carding his fingers through his black hair.

_That was how I felt, watching you perform at Mona's._  

"It's alright. Everyone, except Dean, was surprised when I enrolled into art school after Hogwarts, so really, no offence taken," Harry says. He wonders how much he should tell Malfoy. Sighing, he presses his palms flat on the bench, and gazes at the flurry of traffic and pedestrians below them, and at the construction works on the street. The gardens are a welcome respite from the jarring rush of crowds, cars and concrete. He closes his eyes, turning his face to the sun.

_What’s the big deal, I'm not gonna be seeing him again when I leave New York anyway._ "We went back to Hogwarts for our eighth year," Harry says, remembering that Malfoy didn't. "We helped to repair the castle after the..." A dark look passes across Malfoy's face, and he quickly amends his words. "After everything."

Harry's life would have turned out very differently if he didn't stumble upon Dean Thomas, hunched over on the floor of an abandoned classroom, working on an oil painting of Hogwarts. Dean offered him a paintbrush and a welcoming smile, waving away Harry's doubts that he was absolute pants at drawing.

_“No harm, yeah? It's simple to lose yourself in it. It helps me to... forget too,"_ Dean said, a sad and knowing look in his eye.

He must've heard Harry's screams during his nightmares.

Harry honestly meant for it to be just a bit of good fun, when Dean allocated him a corner of the night sky to paint. Dean was a natural teacher, patient when Harry over-blended the paints, turning the final colour too dark, and when his brush strokes were too heavy. But Harry kept at it, fuelled by determination and a growing interest, as he watched Dean's deft and light strokes on the canvas, paired with an impeccable eye for colour, dimension and detail.

Eventually, the extent of Harry's contribution expanded from his corner to include the mysterious fog of the mountains beyond, and the lights of the castle. Over the course of the project, Harry slept better. Instead of Fiendfyre and green curses, he dreamt of Hogwarts and her majestic spires and turrets, of him catching the Snitch in the clouds, of the sparkling sunlight on the surface of the Great Lake.

Instead of sorrow and destruction, he dreamt of wonder and magic, of home and love.

When they were finished with the painting, Harry blinked in surprise when Dean pointed at the space beside his signature.

_"Every artist signs their work."_  

_"No, I can't, I didn't do much—"_

Harry signed it anyway. McGonagall imbued the painting with an Everlasting Charm and hung it at the Entrance Hall, so that it would be the first thing that one would see upon entering the castle.

At the pride on McGonagall's face when she looked at them, Harry had to swallow his tears. This accomplishment of his didn't involve prophecies, murder and Dark Lords. For the past few weeks, he was just a boy indulging in his childish desire to paint, armed not with curses and strategies to kill, but simply a paintbrush and a palette.

And then he turned to Dean, his throat thick with emotion, and said, " _What else can you teach me?"_  

"Unlike Dean, I have no natural talent," Harry says, pulling himself back to the present. "I learnt a lot from him, went to art school and worked hard. I specialise in oil paintings for larger works, and watercolours for smaller pieces."

Malfoy’s eyes are faraway when he repeats Dean's words, his voice so faint that Harry has to lean in to hear. "It helps you to forget," he murmurs, his left hand clenching. 

"Yeah. It still does. Some days." Harry peers at Malfoy, whose aloof and detached mask has slipped briefly. "When you sing, does it..." He gulps, before continuing in a whisper, "Does it help you forget, too?"

Malfoy scowls at Harry, his reticent countenance snapping back into place. "I don't know what you're talking about." Without waiting for Harry to react, he gets up and hurries away.

Harry calls out his name, and is somewhat mollified when Malfoy slows down. Annoyed, he jogs after him, and they walk further into the High Line. Harry doesn't say anything, not wanting to spook Malfoy again. He looks around them, his heart lifting at the scenery. The change of the gardens is striking — from trees to prairie grasses, along with a different selection of bulbs and flowers on display. It's more crowded here, with knots of families, couples and tourists. There are a few barefoot children splashing happily at the water feature, and Harry waves back at a young boy when he flashes Harry a toothy smile.

Although Malfoy remains silent, he waits for Harry when he pauses to take photos, especially of the enormous, colourful murals covering the side of some buildings, breathing life into the usually dull structures. They wander through the gardens, passing by visitors lying on recliners, sunglasses perched on their noses, with some of them reading or chatting.

Malfoy finally breaks the silence by pointing at a quieter and shaded spot looking west towards the Hudson River. "I often write my songs there."

Harry follows him to the bench, walking past a grove of trees sprouting from squares cut into the boardwalk. Malfoy darts a cautious look at him, his thumb and forefinger rubbing his earrings. "Are you going to tell anyone? That I'm here?"

"No."

The tense set of Malfoy's shoulders relax; the wariness — wound tight around him like a coiled spring — gradually disappears, although his gaze is still guarded. "Why?"

Harry sighs. "Although I still don’t understand why your hair is black and why you're here, so far away from everyone who cares about you, don't you think that I, of all people in wizarding Britain, would understand the value of privacy?"  

Malfoy scuffs the toe of his loafers on the ground. "Yes. I do appreciate your keeping this secret. I just want to—" He breaks off, and looks down. He brings his legs up, sitting cross-legged and resting his wrists on his knees. He speaks, his words hopeful and hesitant. "Would you, by any chance, know how Pansy, Blaise and Greg are doing?"

"Actually yeah, I do. I see them on some pub nights, 'cause Luna's going out with Greg, and—"

"What?” Malfoy interjects, astonished. "Luna Lovegood and Greg?"

"Yeah," Harry says, ready to defend Luna if Malfoy says a nasty word about her. "And Blaise just proposed to Pansy."

"Merlin, that's... that's wonderful!" A small smile forms on Malfoy's lips, before developing into a wide, genuine beam so beautiful that Harry can’t help but stare. "He's always been sweet on her, ever since fifth year. Oh, Merlin, they're getting married, that's brilliant!"

"They were talking about the wedding, and..." Harry pauses, wondering if Malfoy would run off again if he said this. "They want you to be their best man, if only they knew about your whereabouts."

Malfoy's smile dims. "Oh," he mutters, his shoulders sagging, looking lost and distant. "Yes, but I'm here, somewhere different from Britain, away from my past and everything else, and that's... that's alright, isn't it?" he asks, more to himself than to Harry.

For some strange reason, Harry is determined to cheer Malfoy up. "Yeah, it's alright to get away from it all. Different isn't bad, and it’s definitely different here. For instance, why are Americans so loud?" he wonders, indicating the squawking group of teenagers sprawled out on the lawn a short distance away. "The subway smells of piss, and the food portions here are enormous," Harry says, mimicking an expanding plate with his hands.

A glimmer of a grin winks on Malfoy's lips. "Yes, everything here is rather large."

"Worst of all, I don't understand why it's so bloody difficult to find a proper cup of—"

"—tea!” Malfoy finishes with a commiserating groan.

They share a wide smile, and Malfoy throws his head back and laughs, a bright and happy sound. Harry gazes at him with wide, glossy eyes, admiring the way his laugh transforms his face, reminding him of his performance at Mona's. _I did that. I made Draco Malfoy laugh, and it feels bloody brilliant._ His hand goes to his camera, itching to snap a quick photo of a grinning Malfoy as he looks out to the sailboats, barges and ocean liners in the far distance.

"Shall we walk?" Malfoy suggests, after a long moment of companionable silence. Harry agrees, and they continue on the long, meandering path that grants them a view of more gardens, warehouses and brownstones. Eventually, the orange and red hues of the setting sun colour the railroad tracks set into the pathway.

Malfoy taps on the track with a foot. "The park was built on an abandoned railroad.” He pauses, looking rather pensively at the stretch of track ahead. “Meaningful, isn't it? That nature and life can bloom from disuse."

Harry nods, matching Malfoy's tentative smile. "Where does this end?"

"34th Street, if I recall correctly. We started at 13th Street, and we must've walked at least half to three-quarters of it. Shall we call it a day?"

"Yeah. I'm kinda hungry."

They head towards the nearest exit of the High Line, and when Harry tells Malfoy about his craving, Malfoy rolls his eyes good-naturedly.

"What?" Harry says, defensive. "I like American fast food."

They pop into the nearest Chick-fil-A, and Malfoy watches, highly amused, as Harry slathers the special sauce all over his grilled chicken burger and munches happily on his food.

"If you fancy burgers that much, you should try Shake Shack," Malfoy suggests.

They return home after their early dinner, but before Malfoy enters his flat, Harry stops him.

"Thanks for today. It was fun," he says, before adding, with a hopeful smile on his face, "Maybe… maybe we could go to Shake Shack soon?"

Malfoy blinks at him, looking thoughtful. "If you'd like." He tilts his head at Harry. "You said you're looking for inspiration. Have you found it?"

Harry remembers his sketch of Malfoy at Mona’s, the many photos of the day, and of Malfoy laughing as he gazes at the Hudson River. He smiles. "Yeah. It took some time, but yeah, I think I've finally found it."

After a quick rest and a shower, Harry makes himself comfortable on his balcony, and places his Geminio-proof canvas on his easel. He scrolls through his photos, noting the earthy colours of gold, brown and deep red. He spends some time working out a rough composition of his painting. Finally, he picks up a pencil.

There's the sudden twang of a guitar, and he turns towards Malfoy's flat.

When the singing starts, Harry grins and begins to draw.

* * *

“Hey.”

There’s a prod against Harry’s thigh, which feels suspiciously like the toe of Malfoy’s leather boot. Harry grunts, and slides his forearm away from his face, his eyes fluttering open. He’s lying on his back on the Great Lawn in Central Park, with Malfoy sitting cross-legged beside him and hugging his guitar. 

It’s been almost two weeks since they met again, and with every interaction, Harry succeeds in unchaining Malfoy’s smile and defrosting his steely and guarded demeanour. They’re certainly not best mates, but Harry likes to think they’re friends with very similar tastes in music and food.

Or maybe developing to be something more than that.

Harry tilts his head upwards to squint at Malfoy, who lifts up the instrument.

“Would you like to give it a try?”

Harry pats the ground and finds his glasses. He puts them on and rolls onto his belly, facing Malfoy. “You’re taking the piss. You know I can’t play.”

“I could teach you a few chords,” Malfoy offers, shrugging casually. “If you’d like.”

Harry sits up and scoots closer to him, surprised that Malfoy trusts him with his guitar. “You sure?” When Malfoy nods, he smiles and accepts the guitar.

“Be careful with it, alright?” he warns, casting Harry a wary look as he passes him his guitar pick. Harry listens, attentive eyes tracking Malfoy’s hands as he explains the different strings and the frets on the fingerboard.

“Let’s start with the most basic chord — C.” Malfoy rattles off the positioning of the chord, and Harry follows his instructions, feeling rather self-conscious when his fingers stumble on the strings. “Relax, you’re too tense,” Malfoy says, touching his hands to correct his playing.

Harry bites his lip to hide his growing smile at Malfoy’s touch. He dips his head and strums the chord, before looking up at Malfoy, who leans back on the tree, pleased. “Good. Let’s continue with G.”

Malfoy coaches him through seven chords — C, D, E, F, G, A and B. When Harry struggles with the F and B chords, Malfoy is surprisingly patient, offering an easier version of the chords. After some practice, Harry is able to play all of the chords, although the transition between them isn’t smooth, with him taking an embarrassingly long time to change his fingering.

Harry’s nervousness — brought on by having Malfoy’s full attention and the light brushes of Malfoy’s hands on his — certainly isn’t helping things. With the strings biting into his fingertips and the pick damp as he was holding it so tightly, Harry returns the guitar to Malfoy, feeling absurdly proud of this simple achievement.

Harry flops back on the grass, splaying his limbs out like a happy starfish. He closes his eyes, releasing a content sigh at the warm rays of sunlight dancing on his skin. “Play something for me,” he demands. An image enters his mind — Malfoy, all charm and magnetism, looking deep into his eyes as he sings for him.

Instead of a witty comeback, there’s only silence. Harry opens his eyes, only to see the other man staring at him, his lips parted and a faint blush on his cheeks, as if he can’t believe his eyes.

“What?” Harry sits up at once. “Is there something on my face?” He rubs a hand over his face and through his hair, just in case there’s a stray leaf caught somewhere. 

“No.” Flustered, Malfoy glances away to the horse-drawn carriage clomping on the pathway, his blush deepening. He puts his guitar down on its case, grabs his bubble tea and takes a long drink from it. Harry pulls his own bubble tea towards him, slurping up the tapioca pearls and chewing on them. He shifts into the shade of the large tree and leans on its trunk, stretching his legs out. There’s a young boy flying a kite, shouting joyfully as he dashes across the grass in front of them, his mother chasing after him.  

Draco and he had a late lunch at Chinatown, before ending up at Central Park. The place is huge, spanning fifty streets. Harry's first time here was at the beginning of his trip when he visited the row of museums bordering the eastern side of the park. He walked along the reservoir, shoes crunching on the gravelled path as he dodged joggers and cyclists. He's particularly fond of the benches, unique with heartfelt plaques inscribed with marriage proposals, anniversary blessings and dedications to the memory of loved ones. 

Every bench was a story brimming with loss, love and happiness, waiting to be written or drawn.   

Today, he tugged Malfoy to the southern edge of the park, which is much livelier with clusters of children running around the playgrounds, their grins sticky with ice cream and hands full of soft toys bought from the zoo. They walked past families and kissing couples rowing boats on the lakes. Harry really enjoyed the Mall — the pedestrian walkway flanked with rows of rustling elm trees. The area was bustling with buskers, artists painting caricatures and booths selling tourist trinkets, artworks of the city and cheeky badges about American politicians. They ended their leisurely stroll at the Great Lawn.

Malfoy drains his bubble tea. He pokes Harry's leg with his foot. "Get to work, you lazy arse. I'll play when you paint," he says, looking pointedly at Harry's art things.

Harry sighs. It's so tempting to simply laze on the grass, letting the sights and sounds of the park lull him into a soporific stupor, but he definitely doesn’t want to return to London empty-handed. Nevertheless, Harry's motions are sluggish as he sets up his equipment. He dips his brush in oil, dabs it on the cloth and brings it to his loaded palette. He hesitates.

Working on a scene as busy as this has its pros and cons — inspiration might be at every corner, but it's difficult to sift through the noise and highlight something special. Should he paint a landscape, or focus on something different, like a story? There are photos of bridges, fountains and sculptures of the park on his camera, each with their own tale.      

Harry puts his brush down and observes his surroundings. The High Line is so very different from Central Park — the park is much more open and larger, lively and overwhelming to the senses. The Great Lawn is an expansive meadow of green, set against a backdrop of buildings; a calm in the maddening hustle of the city. There's a group of teenagers playing baseball, and when one kid scores, all of them erupt into cheers. Further away, there are birders with binoculars slung over their necks, heads hunched over reference books. A school group, no doubt emerging from the nearby Natural History Museum, appears to be settling down to a picnic.

A breeze rustles the leaves above. The weather is brilliant for late September — cheerful puffball clouds scudding in the azure blue skies. Golden shards of sunlight sifts through the spreading branches overhead, casting shifting shadows on the grass.

Harry glances at the visitors of the park again. It's not a new sensation — feeling alone in a crowd of people, on the outside looking in. The sharp sting of loneliness is familiar, intensified by the nature of his work. Once again, he finds his gaze gravitating towards Malfoy, who is sitting a short distance away. He appears to be writing a song — tinkering with a few chords and humming as he studies a piece of paper with scribbled words. He picks up a pencil, writes something down, and whispers something under his breath repeatedly. Annoyed, he purses his lips and crosses the lyrics out, before strumming a string of chords. He tucks a lock of black hair behind his ear; his earrings are different today, two small silver hoops instead of the studs.

Harry imagines Malfoy, all alone in his flat, with nothing but his guitar and songs keeping him company, and finds similarities to himself, hunched at his easel at Grimmauld Place, engrossed in a flurry of paintings. Sometimes, he's so caught up in his work that Ron and Hermione have to drag him out for fresh air and food.

But who's there for Malfoy when he needs someone?

Harry is caught looking, when Malfoy turns towards him with a questioning look on his face. Harry shakes his head and busies himself with mixing his paints. It doesn't matter if he hasn’t decided on a particular scene, he’s keen to paint something to get the flow going.

Malfoy's mutters become louder, and Harry might've caught a murmur of "green eyes", but no, he must've heard wrong, because Malfoy can't be writing a song about him.

He simply can't be.

* * *

The view from the Empire State Building is nothing like Harry has ever seen before.

New York City is a sprawl of dazzling lights and flashy skyscrapers, the sparkling continuity of the lights stretching as far as the eye can see, interrupted only by the Hudson River and East River framed at the edges of the breath-taking scene. There’s the Chrysler Building, and another building with a glowing red “H&M” on it. Harry inches closer to the safety barricade, gazing down. Although it’s almost midnight, there’s still a steady flow of traffic. Every car on the street, every light in each building represents people going about their daily lives, and it’s strange how that realisation makes Harry feel alive, yet small and insignificant at the same time. Right now, he’s not the Saviour, nor is he the Boy-Who-Lived.

He’s just an anonymous tourist in a beautiful city. 

This is when it finally hits him, with an astonishing intensity and clarity that takes him by surprise, that he’s finally at the city that never sleeps, rich in both Muggle and wizarding history, where futures of people — be it actors, artists, singers, restauranteurs and everything else in between — are crafted, where people are reinvented and nothing stays the same.

_Welcome to New York._

Harry releases a giddy laugh of exhilaration, and closes his eyes to savour the moment. He looks up, marvelling at the inky darkness of the night sky, complete with grey, scraggly clouds, a perfect background for the glittering lights. Grinning, he turns to look at Malfoy, who is staring at the view, his lips curved up into an indulgent smile.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Malfoy murmurs, and even though Harry can hear him just fine, he leans in anyway, close enough to catch a whiff of Malfoy’s vanilla-scented cologne.

“The first time you came here… were you alone?” Harry asks, patting his hair self-consciously.

“Yes. But it’s…” Something softens in Malfoy’s eyes, and his next words send Harry’s heart beating faster. “It’s different when there’s someone to enjoy the sights with you.”

“I’m glad I’m here, then,” Harry whispers. His eyes flicker to Malfoy’s lips, and Malfoy’s breath hitches. The sparkling skyline gradually fades away; his world narrows to Malfoy’s lips and the significance of the loaded moment, full of expectation and promise, thrumming in the air. Malfoy inches closer, and Harry does the same, his eyes half-lidded—

—only to have a tourist shove herself unceremoniously between them.

They rear back from each other, startled. Harry blinks rapidly, his senses and surroundings clicking back into focus, as if released from a spell. Disappointed, he glares at her, who is busy elbowing Malfoy away for a good photo-taking spot.

Malfoy reaches over and taps Harry on the arm, pulling him away to a quieter corner, which is still too crowded for his liking. On their way there, a young girl approaches Harry for his help to snap a photo of her family, and he agrees, relieved that for once, it’s not a stranger requesting for a photo _with_ him.

Harry really wants to recapture the moment that was so abruptly wrenched away, but it’s well and truly gone. Nearby, a girl yelps when a particularly strong breeze lifts her skirt up, and Harry quickly averts his gaze.

Malfoy bumps his shoulder against Harry, and he bumps back.

“Hey,” Harry says. “Can I have your number?”

Malfoy stares at him. “We’re already neighbours,” he points out. 

“Yeah, but it’d be easier to make plans if we have each other’s numbers, yeah? You’re not home sometimes when I knock,” Harry says, and then adds hurriedly, in case Malfoy thinks he’s some desperate stalker, “I won’t text you all the time, if you’re worried about that. Sometimes, when I’m painting, I’ve got questions about New York, so it’d be helpful if I could reach you for that.” A pause. “Unless you’d like me to leave a note under your door,” he quips, cracking a grin.

“Alright, since you asked so politely.” Malfoy takes out his phone, and they swap numbers. Afterwards, they lapse into an easy silence, soaking up the magnificent view. Harry might be looking at the scenery, but all he’s thinking about is Malfoy.

However, he can’t ignore the elephant in the room, can’t disregard Malfoy’s occasional bouts of irritability, can’t overlook the inscrutably haunted look that darkens Malfoy’s troubled eyes sometimes, most notably when they were having dinner and the table beside theirs was a family of three — parents and a boy, all of them blond. Malfoy spent the meal in discomfort, barely nibbling on his food.

Harry has come to recognise moments when Malfoy would experience flashbacks — the sight of a snake triggered the most recent one when they passed by the window display of a pet shop. He knows Malfoy doesn’t sleep well; he often hears the telly coming from his flat in the middle of the night when Harry emerges from his room for some water. A part of him still can’t get used to Malfoy’s black hair, and when his gaze lingers on his unblemished left forearm, Malfoy would turn his arm over, or yank down his sleeve. When Malfoy is left to his thoughts, like now, an undercurrent of melancholy weighs him down, going by his downturned lips and vacant gaze.

It’s painfully clear that Malfoy hasn’t come to terms with the War. Harry certainly knows it’s an excruciatingly difficult process, one that took multiple sessions of therapy for him to properly exorcise his demons.

Still, Harry is so damn attracted to him; drawn to his silky-smooth voice, his good looks, dry wit and sarcastic humour, coupled with that yearning pull of mystery — what exactly happened to him post-war? — that Harry knows will never go away.

Most important of all, he likes how Malfoy makes him feel.

When he’s with him, Harry feels like he can paint the world.

* * *

Yawning, Harry almost falls off his chair in mid-stretch when someone clears his throat rather loudly. Harry closes his mouth at once and turns to his left. 

"Good evening," Malfoy greets. He rests his elbows on the railing of his balcony, and lifts a wine glass in Harry's direction. He swirls his red wine, and takes a sip, half-lidded eyes regarding Harry as he swallows.

Harry switches off the small lamp beside him, pushes his easel away, and pads over to the side of his own balcony, his heart lifting at the sight of Malfoy looking adorably rumpled — hair artfully tousled, top of his black shirt unbuttoned, revealing a teasing glimpse of collarbone and chest. He's wearing dark-grey trousers, and his feet are bare, just like Harry. He must've returned from a show, which means it should be rather late.

Harry nudges his glasses up his nose. "Hey," he says, leaning over, the distance between them roughly three arms' lengths. "How long have you been watching me for?" he teases, his smile spreading when Malfoy’s cheeks flush.

Malfoy lifts his shoulders in a casual, elegant shrug. "I like watching you paint. Like how you like to watch me sing," he says, drawing a chuckle from Harry. Malfoy cranes his neck, eyes flicking to the canvas. "Are you working on the High Line?"

Harry turns back to glance at his current painting of the quirky exterior of a hotel that he passed by yesterday morning. "Nah, I got distracted, unfortunately." He thinks of his unfinished pieces, hesitating before saying, "I've got other things, but they're far from complete. D'you wanna come and have a look?"

Although Malfoy’s eyebrows raise in surprise, he nods and Apparates to Harry's side. Harry grabs his plate of chips that has already gone soggy, before leading Malfoy to his living room, where canvases in various stages of completion are propped against the wall. As Harry eats, he casts a critical eye over his art. He has completed a rough sketch of the view from the Empire State Building, but he's not particularly fond of his work on the High Line and Central Park — the composition and dimensions seem off and lack finer detail, but he likes the selection of colours — more vibrant and brighter, evoking a lighter mood compared to his previous works. There’s a watercolour of someone playing bongo drums in the compartment of the L train. His sketchbook and a clutter of photographs accompany his paintings. 

On second thought, everything seems terribly underwhelming, and Harry shuffles his feet in embarrassment. What was he thinking? He should've offered to show Malfoy photos of his completed works first, rather than these half-baked paintings. "It all looks rather amateurish, yeah?" he says self-deprecatingly, rubbing the back of his neck. "I might scrap it all and start over.”

"Not at all. Some days I feel the same about my half-written lyrics and chord progressions," Malfoy replies. "Do you use magic?"

"Only to remove the smell of the paint, and Everlasting Charms and tamper-proof spells for maintenance after the painting is finished. It's really up to the artist, I know Dean uses magic on his paints to add a bit of sparkle, and spells on his canvas to change the lighting. Other artists take it a step further and enchant their drawings to move, like wizarding photographs, but I like to keep things simple."

"Hmm.” Malfoy indicates his painting of Central Park, a small, reminiscing smile on his lips. "I like your trees. It reminds me of the shores of the Great Lake during autumn." At the mention of Hogwarts, his smile dims.

Eager to change the subject, Harry asks Malfoy to stick around. He puts his empty plate in the sink and hurries to his room to retrieve something that he bought for Malfoy in a vintage music shop, an accidental find during his wandering at Greenwich Village.

"Here." Harry pushes a vinyl record — “Can’t Take My Eyes Off You” by Frankie Valli — into Malfoy’s hands. "I don't know if you've got anything to play it, but I just wanted to get it for you, 'cause it's... well... one of my favourite songs in your repertoire."

"Oh.” Malfoy turns the record over. "Your favourite song that I sing, eh?" he echoes, looking pleased. His gaze lifts to Harry’s jaw. "You've got some paint. Right... here," he says. His eyelashes flutter when he tries to wipe it off with a swipe of his thumb, but oil paints don't come off that easily.

Harry's heart thumps at the sudden contact, and he shows Malfoy his hands, which have smudges of paint on them. "I call these my painting jeans," he says, laughing and motioning to his old jeans with dozens of colourful paint marks, especially at the thighs.

"Almost like a fashion statement," Malfoy says. "What did you do today?"

Harry tips his head to the sofa, and they make themselves comfortable there. Malfoy drains his wine glass and places it on the coffee table.

"Woke up late today, so I went to a nearby al fresco cafe for lunch, and then spent some time people-watching and sketching random things." Harry wrinkles his nose as he remembers. “Walked around Greenwich for a bit, then came back to paint."

Harry might enjoy his solitude as he explores the city, but he has developed a habit of messaging Malfoy often, and he can’t help but feel thrilled whenever he receives a reply. Two nights ago, Malfoy invited him to another gig, and they left together afterwards, eating chicken tikka rolls on the way home.

"Do you have photos of your past exhibitions?" Malfoy asks, leaning forward.

"Yeah." Harry summons a box of photographs of his previous works, pulling out a stack of pictures — highlights of his final year exhibition, the one that he had to pass to leave art school. "The Slytherins came too.”

Malfoy thumbs through the pictures, nodding when Harry explains the story and inspiration behind each painting. Malfoy pauses at a snow-laden Christmas piece of Diagon Alley. "This must be Pansy's favourite," he says.

"Yeah," Harry says slowly. When Pansy saw the piece, she spent a long time gazing at it in wonder, even asking him if the painting was for sale. It's not apparent from the photograph, but this is the only piece that Harry enchanted to make the snow fall and the lights on the Christmas trees sparkle.

"Christmas, snow and presents are her favourite things," Malfoy says, with an affectionate smile. "And mine too," he adds, eyes still glued on the picture.

"D'you think about them? Your friends?" Harry asks.

Malfoy pulls his gaze away from the picture. "Yes." His smile fades. "Among other things," he mutters darkly, a familiar tension seeping into his features. He puts down the photograph and looks around, taking stock of the sparse furnishings of the flat.

"I'm not staying here long-term," Harry explains. "I'll return to London soon enough."

"Ah, yes." Malfoy's smile is bland, his features schooling into a flinty expression, as if guarding himself from an inconvenient truth. "Something I will have to keep in mind."

* * *

People call Times Square the pulsating heartbeat of the city, but Harry doesn’t like the place. The suffocating squeeze of people puts him on edge, and he’s frowning the entire time as they wade through the jostling crowds, passing by the bright lights of theatres, glossy fashion boutiques, upscale hotels, heaving eateries and gift shops selling naff tourist knick-knacks. The perpetual honks of yellow taxis, caught in the snarls of night-time traffic, isn’t helping things either. Malfoy wears a similar expression, which eases when they stop at an al fresco waffle shop for a breather.

“At least you can say you’ve been here before,” Malfoy says. He looks up at the many glowing advertisements for apparel, musicals and the newest Muggle gadgets, the flickering lights of the towering ads reflecting on his grey irises. He nods at the shop. “They serve great Belgian waffles. Would you like some?”

They return to their table soon with their desserts. Harry keeps it simple with a scoop of vanilla ice-cream on a bed of thick and sugary waffle, complete with a hearty drizzle of fudge sauce. Malfoy indulges himself with a pile of toppings — strawberries, Nutella, bananas and salted caramel sauce. They tuck into their food, and Harry laughs at the sight of Malfoy with Nutella smeared all over his mouth. Sure, he has pristine table manners most of the time, but Malfoy’s sweet tooth sends all of that flying out the window when it comes to desserts.

“Out of all the places I’ve visited, I think Times Square is probably my least favourite,” Harry remarks, licking chocolate off the back of his spoon.

Malfoy’s gaze darts to Harry’s mouth. “I’m not surprised. Too overrated and noisy, too touristy.” He cuts a piece of waffle and pairs it with a slice of strawberry. “A lot of people say that about New York, and I could spend the next hour or so listing out all the grievances of the locals — too expensive, too many tourists.” He arches a brow at Harry, who grins sheepishly before Malfoy continues. “Along with the protests lining the streets every so often — but it’s been my home for the past four years.” He eats the waffle and swallows.

Muggle New York City. Home to Draco Malfoy.

Harry recalls the cobblestones and crooked buildings of Diagon Alley, along with its hodgepodge of magical, one-of-a-kind shops. It’s so different from Times Square, with its huge screens, and tall, sleek and rectangular buildings with perfect right angles. 

He doesn’t know which one is more incongruous — Malfoy with black hair, or Malfoy in New York City.

“You’ve got that look on your face again. That puzzled look, as if you’re desperate to figure something out.” Malfoy’s eyelashes dip when he drops his gaze, and his words are soft and contemplative. “You want to know what happened to me. From the… the trials in the Wizengamot, to here.”

“Yeah,” Harry admits, putting his fork down. “I’ve thought about that, ever since I met you again. I know the Ministry seized whatever they could in your vaults for reparations, although they left the Manor intact.” He pauses, before adding quietly, “And I know from Pansy that you left Britain the same day you buried your parents in the family crypt.”

Malfoy goes very still, his fork clutched in his hand and his vacant eyes staring at his food instead of Harry. There’s a long pause, as if he’s having an internal argument, but eventually he speaks, his voice thin and reedy, although his eyes are still trained on his plate. “Mother bought a flat in New York for us to flee to after the war, if needed. It was meant for us as a family, but well…” he trails off, forcing a humourless smile. “I’m lucky she had the foresight to do that. I still have the Manor, yes, but I couldn’t stay in Britain. I had to get away from everyone, even my friends, everyone who reminded me of the war. Fresh start, clean slate.” He sighs. “Whatever possibility of a future I had there ended with the war.”

Malfoy pushes a chunk of banana around his plate, glances up at Harry before returning to his waffle. “My family had a small vault squirrelled away here, so I was able to eke out a living at the start. Any work that required Muggle identification was not possible. Things were... bad for a while. The only marketable skill I had was music. I was taught classical piano and singing since young, but I quickly learned that the guitar was a more practical option. With practise, busking, and my connections with musicians working in music shops, I taught myself the guitar. I got my first gig, and improved my stage presence and skills. I teach guitar too, at the same music shops. What I earn from gigs and teaching supports my day-to-day, and I’m lucky that most of the pubs I work at provides me with a free meal.” Something fierce and indomitable hardens his features. “It took me a long time to get back on my feet, but I did." He continues, softer this time. "And music helps me to…”

When he stops, tugging at his collar in agitation, Harry gives him an encouraging smile.

“Music helps me to escape from… everything. Like how your art helps you to deal with things, I assume,” Malfoy says, voice wavering.

“And the hair?” Harry asks, deliberately excluding the mention of the hidden Dark Mark. Although he has an inkling of the answer, he wants to know what Malfoy says.

“It’s easier to look at myself in the mirror.” Malfoy drags his fingers through his hair, shielding his eyes from Harry, clearly uncomfortable with the turn of conversation. “I look less like my father.”

“Oh,” Harry mumbles, and prods at his melting ice-cream with his fork.

Malfoy manages a dry laugh. “Now you know. The first person who knows the full story, and it’s Harry Potter. Harry sodding Potter at Times Square, Muggle New York.” He shakes his head in disbelief, his lips twisted in a ragged smile, as their gaze snags and hangs in the air. “Who would’ve thought?”

He’s the only person that Malfoy has just confided his past to. The noise and the surging crowds melt away, Harry’s attention entirely on Malfoy. Suddenly, a picture barges into Harry’s mind, as vivid as day: Times Square, lit up with its trademark glittering billboards and shops, rain puddles on the ground reflecting the colourful neon lights, but the streets and roads are deserted and hollow, decorated with emptiness…

…except for a lone, pale and _blond_ Draco Malfoy dressed entirely in black, standing right in the middle of the painting, his countenance downcast and melancholy, his side view presented to the viewer, hands shoved into his pockets as he gazes up at the night sky, as if only the heavens had the answer to his happy ending.   

The foggy muddle in Harry’s head about his upcoming exhibition clears, leaving behind a certainty about the centrepiece of his show so strong that he feels it in the marrow of his bones.

His collection clicks into place. 

_Because no matter how many people there are, all I see is him._

* * *

Harry laughs, a loud and unrestrained sound that blends in with the Saturday night din at Mona's. Malfoy chuckles at his joke, his lips curved up into a warm smile. Their grins subside, and for a long moment, they look at each other, their gaze promising and intimate. Malfoy swivels his bar stool around, and their knees touch, the contact sending a rush of desire jetting through Harry. 

"And you said you were just schoolmates."

Marjorie's words break the spell, and they look up, sheepish.

"Yeah, we are. And we're... friends now," Harry says, fiddling with his napkin, while Malfoy traces patterns on the condensation of his empty glass. It’s been five weeks since they met again, and Marjorie and Harry have got closer over his visits, when he comes by every week to watch Malfoy perform.

Marjorie arches a brow. "Or something more, hmm?" she remarks lightly, smirking. She wipes down the table, winks at Malfoy, and then bustles away to serve other customers. 

Malfoy glances at his watch. "We should head back. It's late." They wave goodbye to Marjorie, and grab their coats on the way out. Malfoy slings his guitar over his back, and they make their way to their usual Apparating corner.

"Thanks for coming," Malfoy says when they're waiting at a crossing.

He messaged Harry that night, asking him out — "only if you'd like, I know it's terribly late." A pause, and then another chime, "If this woke you up, I apologise. Please ignore this and go back to bed." Turns out that Marjorie asked Malfoy to cover for a band’s last set. Harry was indeed dozing off in front of the telly, but upon seeing the message, he popped into the shower and went to Mona's.

They reach the Apparition spot, and a thought strikes Harry. "Are you tired?"

"No." Malfoy looks at him curiously. "Is there somewhere you'd like to go?"

_It’s definitely closed now. Perfect._ Harry grins. "Side-Along?"

He holds Malfoy's hand tight, and focuses hard. They disappear with a crack, appearing at the—

—Empire State Building, which is closed and wonderfully empty.

"Oh," Malfoy whispers, looking around. They're at the exact spot where they were on their first visit, but Harry pays minimal attention to the glittering scenery laid out in front of him, because he's only interested in one thing.

Christ, he really hopes he's not making a colossal mistake.  

He squeezes Malfoy's fingers. "Hi," he whispers, a shy smile blooming on his face, his nerves flittering.

Malfoy squeezes back, his half-lidded eyes smoky. He sets his guitar down, props it against the wall and turns back to Harry. "Hi," he says, rather breathlessly. A breeze flutters his fringe. Malfoy takes a step closer, and Harry mirrors the movement. Moonlight glimmers on Malfoy's earrings, grey eyes dip to Harry's mouth, and Harry quickly licks his lips, hoping they're not too chapped. Malfoy's breath catches, eyelids fluttering closed, and Harry leans in too. His heart is hammering at this culmination of the inevitable, inexorable pull between them—

The kiss is the sweetest that Harry has ever experienced.

It starts hesitant, a soft brush of their lips, eyes closed and hands clasped together between their bodies. Malfoy's grip tightens, and Harry shuffles closer, his toes curling in his trainers, as he tilts his head, deepening the kiss. Malfoy makes a sound, a low sigh at the back of his throat, and the slow coil of heat and desire at the pit of Harry's belly flares to life.

Malfoy wraps his arms around Harry's waist and pulls him so close until their chests are touching. Harry presses a palm on the back of his neck, while his other arm winds around Malfoy's waist. Starbursts of sensation fizzle on his skin, swamping his senses — Malfoy's soft hair threading through his fingers, the pressing heat of their bodies, the plumpness of Malfoy's bottom lip when Harry playfully nips it, the drift of Malfoy's distinctive vanilla scent on the night breeze.

Harry bottles every sensation up as inspiration.

He walks Malfoy backwards to the barricade, never breaking the kiss. Malfoy brings a hand up, his fingertips skimming Harry's abdomen and chest, as if he wants to keep him close. Harry laces his own fingers with Malfoy's, holding on tight. When Malfoy traces his tongue along the seam of Harry's lips, Harry lets out a moan, feeling rather weak at the knees.

The kiss turns heated, filled with a new sense of urgency and desperation that he didn't know could come from Malfoy. Malfoy's hand slides into Harry's T-shirt, fingertips tracing small circles on Harry's lower back. Harry lets niggling thoughts about everything else float away — their messy history, his painting deadlines, his longing for everyone back home, and his denial about his departure from New York. The only thing he cares about is this rare and delicate romance unfolding between them, so special and precious, that he would give anything to explore it fully. 

They pull away, their lips making a soft sound when they part, identical foolish grins on their faces.

Harry smooths a lock of hair away from Malfoy's forehead, his grin widening when Malfoy tilts his head to kiss his wrist. "New York sparkles in front of me, but I can't take my eyes off you," Harry whispers, repeating the lyrics that he has heard so often, sung in Malfoy's silky-smooth voice.

Malfoy simply stares at him, his eyes wide and lips parted in an "o" of surprise. "Harry, I..."

Harry’s slow smile builds. "I like it when you say my name."

Malfoy's blush deepens, and he rests their foreheads together. "I've wanted this for longer than I'd admit to myself," he murmurs, pressing a hand on Harry's chest, directly over his heart.

Malfoy’s words are as touching and dreamy as a slow dance, and a special kind of joy whistles around Harry's heart at the confession. "Draco," he whispers, and Malfoy smiles, showing a new happiness which glows like a halo.

They enjoy the view again, but this time, they're wrapped in each other’s arms.

Harry kisses Malfoy’s smile all over again, wanting this night to last forever.

* * *

"Why do people always ask you for photos?" Draco says, exasperated. He holds out Harry's ice-cream cone.

Harry smiles back at the couple, who seem satisfied with his photo-taking skills. He returns to Draco's side, taking the proffered ice-cream. He licks happily at his half-eaten chocolate chocolate chunk. "Dunno. Maybe I have an approachable face." He flashes Draco a mischievous grin. "A face that you like, by the way."

For dinner that night, they ignored the snaking queues at Juliana's and Grimaldi's Pizza in favour of Shake Shack, where Harry fell in love with the Shackburger. Dessert was a quick visit to the Brooklyn Ice-Cream Factory, and they're ending the evening with a sunset view at the Brooklyn Bridge Lookout, a ground-level viewpoint. Harry’s eyes sparkle at the colourful twinkling lights adorning the sides of the bridge, almost glittering as brightly as the gleaming lights of the skyscrapers and buildings at the Financial District of southern Manhattan, across the East River. He waits for a ferry to pass before snapping a photo.

Harry puts his camera away, and then quickly lowers his head to catch a wayward drip of ice-cream before it lands on his wrist. He glances at Draco, who is staring off towards downtown Manhattan with glassy eyes. Harry nibbles on his lower lip, frowning. He knows that look — he’s noticed it on Draco’s face before. What ghosts was he seeing?

"Hey," he says, bumping shoulders with Draco and sidling closer.

Draco snaps out of it with a visible shudder. His gaze flickers to the skyline across the river. Harry waits for him to say something, but when he doesn’t, he simply touches the back of Draco’s hand, giving him a patient smile. Harry and his friends have had each other to heal after the war, while Draco only had himself.

“I still can't believe it actually happened,” Draco murmurs. He looks at Harry for a long moment, before glancing back to the skyline. “Sometimes I look up, and I still expect them to be there. But other times, I see a picture taken before, and they're standing there, but…” He releases a shaky breath.

He was wrong, Harry realises. Draco was seeing ghosts, but not the ones he thought. It's been a year since the towers fell. “Where were they?” he asks, voice hushed.

Draco stares across the river, and then points. “The building with the pointed roofline, just there?  To the left, there's a building that's darker than the others. They stood right between the two, and twice as tall.”

Harry remembers the moment he heard about the attacks, and he probably always would. He tells Draco so.

Draco nods. “I was at home, playing my guitar, when I saw it on the news. It was on every channel. Endless videos, endless accounts.” He lowers his chin, shaking his head slowly. “Now, sometimes when I see a traffic light change, I remember all those people in the streets. Crying and screaming, dazed and injured, covered with dust. So much smoke and paper everywhere. There was so much paper…”

Harry didn't understand the connection to a traffic light, so Draco explained.

“After the towers fell, everything — cars, fire trucks, people — was covered in dust and debris. Windows blown out. So much paper fluttering about in the streets, paper that was on someone’s desk seconds before. In the coverage, I remember watching this one traffic light changing over and over again.” Draco makes a sound that might have been a laugh but held no humour. “I thought, how perfectly mundane. A traffic light changing, as if it were any other day. As if thousands of people hadn't just been killed. But still, the traffic lights kept on changing.”

Harry curls his fingers around Draco’s hand.

Draco exhales heavily. “Stupid thing to fixate on. A bloody traffic light.”

_Why does hate exist everywhere — both in the magical and Muggle worlds?_

“Hey. That’s not stupid,” Harry whispers. He squeezes Draco’s hand, and angles his head for a quick kiss, but Draco pulls away, his eyes darting at the people around them. Harry kisses him anyway, tasting peaches and cream on Draco's tongue. It's a short and chaste kiss, since he's mindful of Draco's self-consciousness, but it’s the best show of understanding and support he can think of. Draco gives him a small, fond smile.

Harry's ice-cream dripped all over the railing during the conversation, so he cleans it up, stepping back afterwards. He spots the numerous engraved love locks clinging onto the metal mesh below the railing.

He casts a lingering gaze at the padlocks, and then gives Draco a meaningful look.

"Maybe we could…” he says hopefully.

"You big sap," Draco says affectionately. He takes out his wand, and after ensuring that no one is looking, quickly duplicates a lock and removes the original engraving.

"Initials are rather naff, yeah?" Harry says.

Draco releases a sigh of relief. "Thank Merlin you agree with me. I really didn't want to put DMHP surrounded by a gigantic red heart." He thinks for a moment. "How about our house colours? Classy, yet subtle."

"Sounds great," Harry says, nodding. He finishes his ice-cream and huddles close to Draco, shielding him from wandering eyes as he carries out the charms. The padlock is coloured red and gold on one side, and green and silver on the other, with today's date carved on the shackle of the lock. A syrupy-sweet warmth blossoms in Harry's chest when Draco bends down and hooks the padlock on the mesh, locking it with a click.

It's a physical proof of their time together, and Harry matches Draco’s indulgent smile.

_Come back to London with me._

He was tempted before to blurt out those words, and so close to telling Hermione and Ron about this ephemeral, unfurling romance with Draco, which feels like the world's best kept secret.

Harry has been in New York for a month or so — the days simply fly by, like how holidays tend to be; sometimes he doesn't even know the day of the week. Even though they tiptoe around the issue, they both know he has to leave soon. But Harry refuses to think about that, so disconnected from his life in London, too steeped in his denial and consumed with the day-to-day whirlwind of dates with Draco, painting, watching Draco sing and more painting. He’s now concentrating entirely on his Times Square painting, and with each stroke of the painting that Draco inspired, he falls for him just a bit more.

And when Draco grins and says, with twinkling eyes, "Wanna walk on the Brooklyn Bridge? Race you there, Scarhead!" — Harry's return to London seems further and further away.

* * *

Harry knocks on Draco's door for the third time, calling his name for good measure. After a moment, he steps back, frowning. This is unusual; Draco is always on time. He presses his lips together in worry, and decides to Apparate to Draco's balcony.

It’s his first time inside the flat, as they spend time together at Harry's place. Harry isn’t surprised — Draco is the more private one. He enters the bedroom, his body sagging in relief when a sleeping Draco is bundled up in bed, covers pulled to his chin.

_Maybe his gig ended late last night._ Harry goes to him, unsure of what to do. Perhaps Draco wants a lie-in today. It'd be rather rude to wake him up, if that's the case. Harry is about to leave, when he spots two identical and empty potion bottles on the nightstand. The labels might be torn off, but he's familiar with the shape of the vials.

Dreamless Sleep. 

He grabs a bottle, his suspicion confirmed at the remains of the dark purple potion and the smell of lavender and valerian.

His chest tightening in anxiety, Harry scrambles onto Draco's bed and shakes him. " _Rennervate_!" he cries, when his shouts have no effect. Draco is still unconscious, his body as limp as a rag doll, his head lolling back. Harry presses two fingers to the inside of Draco's wrist — his pulse is thin and thready. "Two bottles, what were you thinking?!" he rages, his worry morphing into full-blown panic.

_So this is how Hermione felt when she found me after my overdose right after the war._

He gives Draco one last futile shake, before rushing to the loo and opening the cabinets. With jittery hands, he sifts through the Pepper-ups, more Dreamless Sleep, black hair dye, a concealer for pale skin, before stumbling on what he wants — the antidote for a Dreamless Sleep overdose.

He's about to close the cabinet when he spies a sealed, full bottle of Draught of Living Death, tucked away at the back. Scowling, Harry pockets it. He hurries back to Draco, helps him to a sitting position on the bed, and then trickles the thin, golden potion into his mouth. "Come on," Harry mutters, staring at his gulping throat.

He’s wracked with worry while he waits for Draco to regain consciousness. He gathers him in his arms, ready to bring him to the nearest wizarding hospital, but he stops when Draco groans, mumbling something. Draco groggily squints at the sunlight slanting through the blinds, before dropping his chin to his chest. After a while, he opens bleary eyes and mutters Harry's name.

Harry conjures some water into the empty antidote bottle, and hands it to Draco, relief warring with mounting anger and disbelief. "I know some part of you is still messed up with the war, but this..." He shoves the empty vials of Dreamless Sleep into Draco's lap. "What if I was too late?"

Oh, he knows of this lingering, insidious darkness, trapped in the maelstrom of Draco's thoughts that followed him all the way from the UK to New York.

Because Harry battled that very same darkness himself.   

They've been walking on eggshells about this, but Harry needs to wrest it out into the open, to voice out his worries and concern, because if he doesn't, then who would?

Draco curls his hand around a vial and hangs his head. "Wanted only one," he mumbles, his voice reedy and weak. "But kept dreaming of you—"

"What? Dreaming of me made you take more? And I thought we—"

"No, not like that!" Draco insists, looking up and clutching Harry's hand like a lifeline. He coughs, and Harry shushes him at once, gesturing for him to take a long drink of water. Draco does so, and a long, silent moment passes as Harry waits for him to recover.

Eventually, Draco puts the water down. "It's just...” He takes a deep breath, his jaw clenching. "I haven’t felt anything for so long, and then you appeared and changed everything. You've always provoked such extreme emotions, but recently you've made me feel other things. Things like… like happiness, passion, longing, and I..." He gulps, rubbing his upper arms as if he’s cold.

"But you bring back other memories, too. Things I want to forget," Draco whispers, a small and sad smile on his lips. He pulls his hand away from Harry, and clings onto his duvet instead, shoulders curling into his chest. "I can’t think of you without remembering the war, and when we started going out, everything came back again, and it's..." he trails off, gesturing to the vials as if they could explain everything.

Harry's mind is spinning. "So I'm... I'm hurting you, in the long run? I make you happy, but I'm making things worse too, aren't I?" Helpless, he shuffles away from Draco, until he's kneeling on the opposite side of the bed, palms clenched on his thighs. "Then it can't work like this," he mutters, eyes dull and downcast.

Draco's head jerks back, his spine stiffening. "What?" He shakes his head in shock, pulling his duvet closer to his chest. "No, you can't—"

"Changing your hair colour, covering your Mark, hiding away here. This isn't the right way to deal with things. All your friends miss you so much.” Harry is finally saying what he has wanted to say ever since he saw Draco in New York. His heart twinges when Draco cringes and turns away, as if shielding himself from his words. "They've dealt with their demons, and yes, I know you've gone through worse, but you need to deal with this."

He could've phrased things more delicately, but he's terrible with words. Hermione would do a much better job, and in that moment, he feels a sharp pang of longing for her ever-practical advice and Ron's supportive presence. If only he could talk to them about Draco.

But Harry can't stop. Now that everything is out, he can't take it back. "Come home with me. Please, Draco. Of all the places in New York, I just had to stay beside you. It has to mean something! Come home to people that love you, care for you. We'll get you some help, someone you can talk to.” A wisp of cautious hope lifts in Harry’s chest. "It's really not that bad, talking to someone professional. I've done something similar before, and I'll be with you, every step of the way, like how Ron and Hermione were there for me." He holds his breath and his gaze with Draco.

"I'm not yours to save."

Draco's lost expression fades, and Harry's heart sinks at his icy tone and hooded eyes.

Harry gets off the bed. It's difficult, he knows, when confronted with the raw truth of things, so he's not surprised at Draco’s lashing out, but that doesn’t make it hurt less.

"Then you didn't mean what you said that day at the High Line. When you said it's alright to get away from it all," Draco snarls, his chin jutting out in combat.

That was a plea for validation, and Harry gave it to him. "I meant it, yeah, but not to the extent that you've done it," Harry says evenly, not stepping up to the fight. They’re no longer at Hogwarts, nor are they at odds. He recalls what his ex-therapist repeated dozens of times, and he says it now, choosing his words deliberately.

"You can't cure the pain if you deny it exists."

Draco crosses his arms over his chest, his gaze darting, before he musters a weak sneer. "Are you going to save me, then? Like what you just did?"

"I've done enough saving. I just don't want to lose you."

"Lose me?” A scathing, familiar drawl creeps into Draco’s words. “When did you ever have me, Potter?”

Apparently, he hasn't lost the knack for hurting Harry right where it matters the most. Harry retreats to the door, his heart sinking like a boulder.

But Draco isn’t finished. "You come here unannounced, years after the war, we go out for a while, and you think you can save me, change me? There is no future for us in London! What would they say, a Death Eater and the Saviour? Go home and get your inspiration for your damn paintings elsewhere!"

Harry flinches, the words like a slap to the face. He's tempted to shout back, but he swallows the furious words, simmering so close to the surface. Instead, his voice is subdued, his eyes sad and tired, arms hanging at the sides.

"I'd take all of you, Draco, and I could... I could almost come to love you. I'd take all of your past mistakes and sins, and I think I could… I could love you." 

Draco falls into a stunned silence at his words.

Despite the heaviness in his limbs, Harry's hand finds the doorknob. "But I can't love someone who is still living in the past. I'm sorry," he whispers, and then flees, tearing his gaze away from a frozen Draco with wild hair and vacant eyes.

That night, Harry lies in bed, phone in his hand and Draco's hateful words replaying in a heart-breaking loop in his mind. As he scrolls through his older messages with Draco, he pushes away those words and tries to think of their happier moments together. He’s equally startled and hopeful when his phone chimes with a new message, but it’s Dean. Harry sighs, his heart plummeting with fading hope.

He falls asleep with his phone clasped in his hand.

* * *

It takes two days for Draco to put his pride away.

Harry opens his door, revealing Draco holding a pizza box from Joe's Pizza.

Unimpressed, Harry crosses his arms and leans against the doorjamb, raising his brows in challenge. Draco extends his other arm, proffering a large paper bag from Shake Shack.

"Now that's not fair," Harry mutters. Nevertheless, he steps to the side. Draco goes to the kitchen, and begins unpacking the food, avoiding Harry's eyes the entire time.

Harry should get it out of the way, just like ripping off a plaster. "I'm leaving next Sunday." The words emerge more brusque and abrupt than expected, but a small, spiteful part of him thinks that Draco deserves it. Besides, they both know he can't stay forever — Harry misses London, all his friends and family, Mrs Weasley's cooking, and the familiarity and comfort of his home.

Draco goes very still. His hand, which is holding a paper tray of chips, freezes in mid-air. After a moment, he puts the chips down. He tugs on his earrings, and finally turns to Harry, his smile not reaching his eyes.

"Then we should enjoy our remaining time together."

Harry's self-righteous annoyance deflates, and he goes to Draco's side. "Yeah. We should.” He hesitates, before wrapping an arm around Draco’s waist and squeezing. Draco stiffens for a second, and then he hugs Harry tightly, his apology trembling in his touch. 

Harry sighs softly, and kisses Draco's cheek, while inside his head, he counts down the days to next Sunday.

* * *

He watches Draco play at Mona's for the last time. Unlike his first visit, Harry sits right at the front. Draco looks at him when he sings "Can’t Take My Eyes Off You", and Harry's heart clenches something bittersweet. Harry tells Marjorie that he's going back to London, thanking her for all the drinks, laughter and wonderful conversation.

_"What? You're leaving? But what about Draco?"_

After Mona's, they stop by the cart for their usual chicken tikka rolls, Draco's guitar slung over his back, just like their first time.

But now, they hold hands as they walk home.

They visit Central Park again on another day, and Draco points at Wollman Rink.

_"People ice-skate there at winter. New York is… well, it’s a sight to behold during winter."_

Harry doesn't know what to say.

All he can think about is what they could have been.

* * *

A dozing Draco makes an adorable snuffling sound as he nuzzles his cheek on Harry's shoulder. Harry looks down and smiles, before returning his attention to the Friends episode on Draco's telly, chuckling at Joey’s struggle with his Thanksgiving turkey.

When the show ends, he kisses the top of Draco's head. Draco mumbles something. He slowly lifts his chin, rubbing his eyes and blinks up at Harry.

"I have to pack, I’m leaving tomorrow," Harry says, the words catching in his throat. "So I guess this is—"

"Stay," Draco says. Harry's heart soars—

"For the night. Stay for the night," Draco amends, swallowing. Harry pushes down a jolt of disappointment.

They've never spent the night together before. "Okay," Harry says. He goes to his flat to change into his sleeping things and brush his teeth, ignoring the mess — he'll pack tomorrow morning.

He returns to Draco's living room, the lights already off. Draco is waiting in bed — the room is dark, save for a strip of moonlight on the end of the bed. When Harry is tucked in, Draco hugs him from behind, his hands on Harry's belly, and Harry laces his fingers with Draco's. He tilts his head to inhale Draco's vanilla scent, committing every detail to memory — Draco's comforting warmth, the rise and fall of Draco's chest against his back, and the sound of his slow breathing.

Harry sees the rough outlines of his phone, camera, wand and glasses, along with a familiar potion bottle on the nightstand. He brings Draco's hand up to his lips and kisses his palm. "I want you to get better," he murmurs, his eyes focused on the bottle. "Even if we don't see each other again, that's all I want."

Draco tenses, and Harry holds onto his hands, in case he tries to pull away. Instead, Draco releases a small and sad sigh, pulling Harry closer.

"Alright."

This time, he sounds like he almost means it.

* * *

It's not news to him, but Draco is so damn beautiful.

Harry resists the urge to trace Draco's delicate features with a fingertip, wary about waking him. He looks wonderfully at ease and unguarded, every bit of anxiety and sadness swept away from his face. Harry takes in the inky blackness of his hair and eyebrows, counts the handful of faint freckles on the bridge of his nose, and admires the cupid's bow curve of his lush lips.

Harry memorises everything, because he doesn't know whether they will ever meet again. Careful not to jostle him awake, Harry reaches for his camera and takes a picture of him. He glances at the time — he has just enough time to pack his things, grab a quick bite and travel to Portkey Central. He's of two minds whether to wake Draco up, then decides against it. 

They've already spent the past two weeks saying goodbye in their own little ways.

After admiring Draco for a while longer, Harry rolls over and carefully eases himself out of bed. He's halfway into gathering his things when Draco grunts. "Harry," he murmurs, sitting up and pressing the heel of his palm on his closed eyes briefly, before looking up. "Good morning."

Draco's smile is so bright that it breaks Harry's heart all over again.

There are pillow creases on his cheek, and his hair is the messiest that Harry has seen it. A yearning to return to Draco’s side resonates within Harry, so strong that his heart clenches. _If only I could wake up to this every day. I'd kiss you awake every morning, make breakfast for you, give you anything._

"Good morning," Harry says, pocketing his phone. He forces the words out despite the heartache gnawing away inside him. "And goodbye."

Draco's sleepy smile freezes and slides off his face.

"Eleven thirty, room fifteen at Portkey Central," Harry says, even though he knows he shouldn’t expect anything. "Take care, Draco," he whispers, the words stuck in his throat.  

And then he turns and leaves, closing the door quietly behind him.

Harry returns to his flat to wash up and pack his things, ignoring the shatter of hope and squirm of sadness twisting in his heart. He stumbles on Draco's Draught of Living Death, and he vanishes it without a second thought. With his things shrunken into a duffel bag and his paintings in a briefcase, Harry leaves the flat the way it was, erasing any trace of his stay.

He stops in front of Draco's door, and retrieves two items from his bag — his very first sketch of Draco at Mona's, and the contact details of his ex-therapist in Horizont Alley, a quiet wizarding street a distance away from Diagon Alley. He slides both items under Draco's door, and without looking back, Harry enters the lift that takes him away from Draco.

He could Apparate to Portkey Central, but instead, he chooses to walk the few blocks there, soaking in the atmosphere of New York for one last time.

He spent two months here looking for inspiration, but he ended up finding so much more.

Harry buys a sandwich and coffee at Portkey Central. With one eye trained on the entrance, he sits at the public waiting area to eat, not tasting his food at all.

If life is like a Hollywood movie or some sort of fairy tale, Draco would come charging in with grand gestures and touching words, bags and guitar in hand, ready to go home with him. 

But real life is never like that, is it?

Harry finishes his coffee, and bins his sandwich wrapper and paper cup. He waits until the last possible moment, and then gets up, hoisting the strap of his bag over his shoulder. With a piece of his heart left behind, Harry enters room fifteen to take the Portkey that will take him home.

Alone.

* * *

**/tbc**

Credits for Harry's "no one’s gonna ‘couple of blocks’ me anymore!" joke in the second scene goes to Leslie Jones's skit during Saturday Night Live's Weekend Update. Credits for the title goes to Jon Cozart’s “Tourist: A Love Song from Paris”. The heart-wrenching lyrics, along with the video of the song, were an important inspiration to the mood of the fic. "Can't Take My Eyes Off You" is credited to Frankie Valli.

I’ve tried my best to keep things as accurate as possible — smartphones weren’t common in 2002, and modern apps didn’t exist then (so Harry couldn’t have taken photos with his phone or used Whatsapp). However, the High Line was fully open only in 2014, but I couldn’t remove it as it was a crucial setting to the story, so I’m afraid I did take some artistic licence with this location.


	2. London

* * *

Harry loads his brush with paint, and then brings it to the half-finished cloud in his painting of Central Park. The tip of the brush hovers expectantly in the air, before his shoulders slump and he puts it down.

This isn’t good.

He eyes the painting for a moment. Sighing, he pushes the easel back, looking at it from another point of view.

It’s coming out all wrong.

The dimensions and framing of the piece are shaping up nicely, but the tone of the colours aren’t right, incongruous with the light-hearted mood he’s aiming for. Instead of being calm and soothing, the blue evokes an overall effect of sadness and coldness. The green of the grass is too dark, the flowers too purple. And why on earth did he paint it raining? The clouds are too heavy, the sky too grey—

—like the grey of Draco’s eyes.

Harry removes his glasses and hangs his head, rubbing his face in frustration and longing.

Even though Draco isn’t here anymore, he’s still in every painting.

It takes some time for Harry to pull himself together. He puts his glasses on, and studies two completed paintings hanging on the wall — Times Square and the Empire State Building. The bulk of those paintings were completed in New York, with the finishing touches placed after his return to London. The colours are vibrant and bright; when Harry looks at them, his heart lifts, remembering that magic, that lovely feeling of wonder and adventure he experienced with Draco. 

It’s as if Draco is with him, playing his guitar and writing his songs.

Harry scowls at the newly started Central Park painting. He’s tempted to _Incendio_ it, but instead, he pushes away the table of photographs beside him. It’s almost two in the morning. _Maybe I just need some sleep_. He stretches, wincing at the pops of his spine and the perpetual ache in his lower back from sitting for so long. He bins the takeaway containers, packs up his paints, and exits his studio in Grimmauld Place.

Yawning, Harry pads to his bedroom.

He scrubs paint off his skin and from under his fingernails, and gets ready for bed. He wraps himself snugly in his duvet, grabs his phone and opens his messages, scrolling past other names before spotting Draco's. He pauses before selecting Draco's name — he has to stop this habit, nothing will come out of this... stalking. They haven't spoken since Harry left, so why should things change now?

He taps on Draco's name anyway.

This time, he resists looking through old messages, and simply stares at Draco's last message, wondering what he’s doing right now. _It's nine pm in New York now. Thursday. He should be singing at Mona's._ Harry’s heart thuds with a keen longing. _I was there with him last week._

Of course he told Ron, Hermione and Dean about Draco. How could he not, when Draco was such a central part of his inspiration? Hermione offered a heartfelt “ _I'm sorry, Harry”_ and then folded him up into a hug. Even though Ron couldn't wrap his head around things, he still made him a strong cup of tea, while Dean gave Harry a comforting squeeze on the shoulder.

They promised not to divulge Draco's whereabouts to the Slytherins.

Harry switches off his phone, and he pauses before opening the top drawer of his nightstand. _Just one last time._ He withdraws the photograph of a sleeping Draco on their last morning together. Despite the hollowness echoing within him, a small, fond smile lifts the corners of his mouth.

_I miss you so much. I miss your touch, your laugh, your silly jokes, your kisses._

_I miss how you make me feel._

He grazes a fingernail on the picture, tracing the contours and shadows of Draco's features. He recalls the sensation of Draco's lips on his own, the softness of his cheeks under his thumbs, the delicate flutter of Draco's eyelashes against his fingers. 

Sighing, Harry hums “Can’t Take My Eyes Off You”, and turns out the lights. He punches his pillow into shape, and lies down, staring up at the ceiling. It was just a summer fling; something that burnt as bright and beautiful, yet as temporary, as a shooting star.

Harry closes his eyes, releasing a long and deep sigh, brimming with feeling.

_Are you thinking about me, just like how I'm thinking about you?_

* * *

Harry sits in the middle of his studio, surrounded by Draco.

Hanging on the walls are eleven completed paintings, and the only human in most of them is a pale, tall and blond man, his face not drawn in sharp focus to conceal his identity.

Draco's presence is in every painting, like a fingerprint.

Ron, Hermione and Dean are milling about the studio. Although Harry will need a few more pieces for a full exhibition, he has always invited his three closest friends for a preview and to gather preliminary feedback, especially from Dean.

Hermione is smiling at a painting, and Harry joins her. He matches her grin — he loves it whenever his art makes people happy. “This is my favourite,” she says, her eyes still on the painting.

It’s the one of Draco performing in Mona’s, but Harry has chosen a different point of view compared to his sketch. Instead of watching from the audience, the viewer is behind Draco (Harry blushed when he was drawing Draco’s bum), who has his head tilted back towards the viewer, his side profile visible. A spotlight highlights the playful half-smile on his lips, half-lidded eyes and tousled blond hair.

_Draco, the entertainer._

“It’s like he’s letting us in on something private, something secret,” Hermione says, gesturing to Draco’s smirk. “And the energy of the crowd really shines, as if they’re hanging onto every word,” she adds, pointing to the audience, and Harry smiles at the rowdy table of women at the front.

“Yeah, that’s how it’s like when he performs.” Harry indicates a dark, hooded figure at the corner of the bar, a sketchbook on his lap. “That’s me.”

Hermione laughs. “You look really dodgy!”

Harry chuckles and agrees, rubbing the back of his neck. His smile fades at the title of the painting.

_Can’t Take My Eyes Off You._

He looks away and spots Ron, who is grinning at the watercolour of a street in New York, with eateries like Joe’s Pizza and Shake Shack. Harry has painted Draco as the bloke unlocking his parked bicycle. _Trust Ron to fancy the one with food_.

Dean is perusing the largest painting — Times Square. His arms are folded across his chest, and his chin is held between a thumb and a forefinger, deep in thought. He takes a step to the left, looking at it from another angle. Harry approaches him, keen on hearing his thoughts about this particular piece — the best so far, in his humble opinion.

“You’ve outdone yourself,” Dean says in awe, indicating the painting with an eager hand. “This has to be the centrepiece. Look at it, it’s… Merlin…” he trails off, his eyes falling on Draco’s figure in the middle of the deserted streets.

Harry has reproduced it exactly like the image in his mind’s eye that popped up that night at Times Square. He has captured the pulsing magic of the sparkling, overwhelming lights of Times Square — the billboards, advertisements, the neon glow of signs belonging to fast food restaurants and theatres — startlingly vibrant against the backdrop of the velvet night sky. The streets are wet with rain, each puddle reflecting the colourful lights. The setting is a stark contrast to Draco, standing alone with his side presented to the viewer. His hands are jammed in his pockets, his collar pushed high that it covers his jaw, and instead of looking at the buildings, his head is tilted up and he’s gazing solemnly at the sky, the very picture of melancholy and loneliness.

It’s as if he has lost his way.

The painting reminds Harry of their conversation about Draco’s past.

_Draco, and the day he let his walls crumble._

“You’ve come a long way since Hogwarts,” Dean says, his voice full of pride. Harry grins rather shyly at his mentor and thanks him for the praise. They walk together, discussing the technical aspects — texture, form and shape, for example — of each painting, and things that Harry should take note of in his future works.

“The one thing that really jumps out, though…” Dean points to the paintings of Times Square, Empire State Building and the High Line, pieces that Harry completed mostly in New York. “The colours are so bright, so happy. So full of hope and potential.” His smile disappears, and Harry follows him to the artworks of Central Park and Brooklyn Bridge, painted when he was back in Grimmauld.

“And then you lost him,” Dean says quietly.

Harry kept the Central Park painting as it was — rain, dark colours and all. He drew Draco alone and sitting under a large tree, tinkering half-heartedly with his guitar. For the Brooklyn Bridge painting, the blazing lights of downtown Manhattan accompany the swathes of orange and pink at sunset; but the focus is on Draco staring at the skyline, his ice-cream cone melting in his hands and dripping down to the lovers’ locks below.

“Yeah, some are happy, some are sad. I tried to make all of them cheerful, but it’s…” Harry draws in a breath and huffs it out. “It’s difficult to get that same effect ever since I’ve returned home.”

“You don’t need the same mood for every painting in a collection. How do you feel about your work?”

A fierce pride surges within Harry. “I think I’ve done well. It’s a collection I’m proud to put my name on.” He glances at the brewing storm clouds in the Central Park painting. “I think it’s good to have a difference, a sort of before and after. It tells a story, and more importantly, it shows how…” Harry swallows. “It shows how much he’s affected me and my art.”

Dean smiles, pleased. “Are you selling all of them?”

“I’m keeping Times Square, and the one of him performing in Mona’s,” Harry says at once. “And Empire State Building.”

_Draco, and our first kiss._

Harry cards his fingers through his hair. “I dunno, I might keep them all. Everything reminds me of him, and it’s just…” He shrugs, looking at Ron and Hermione when they approach them. “I just miss him, you know,” he adds rather lamely, and makes an internal promise to shut up about Draco. He’s certain his friends have had enough — it’s annoying how sometimes he’s still moping about like a funeral on legs, even a month after his return from New York.

_I’m sure Draco has moved on. Perhaps he’s even found someone else._

Harry needs time. He’s thinking about Draco so much because of this collection. After he’s finished with it, perhaps this inexorable pull, this fervent longing for Draco will finally fade, like how pencil marks dull on canvas after enough time.

Harry pulls up an overly bright smile. “So how d’you like it?” he asks, gesturing to the paintings.

Ron and Hermione share a look, one that puts him on edge. She takes Harry’s hand, and leads him to his painting chair. She perches on the rickety chair that Harry uses to hold his palette, while Ron and Dean stand behind her.

Harry stares at them, confused. “It can’t be that bad. Even Dean said—“  

Hermione takes a deep breath. “Go back to New York.”

“I’m sorry, _what_?” he splutters, blinking rapidly at his friends.

“Go back and look for him, Harry,” Hermione says. “If he’s really what you want, if he means this much to you,” She sweeps an arm out, indicating the paintings dedicated to Draco, “then go and get him. We’re not asking you to move over, but perhaps something long-distance? Or you could split your time between London and New York? They do have art studios there.”

“But my home is here, I can’t just up sticks and leave!"

Of course, Harry has thought about it before in the wildest of dreams that he’d return to New York and they’d continue where they left off, but his doubt and disappointment deterred him — even if they reunite, it would be too impractical. Draco was firm about staying, and he needs to sort things out first before he’s ready for any form of a healthy relationship.

Now, Harry’s friends are advising him to return. What used to be a formless, vague possibility is quickly gaining momentum, Hermione’s ever-practical words of support acting as catalyst.  

“We want you to be happy,” she says, a patient smile on her face. “Besides, it’s a bit premature to talk about things so far into the future, isn’t it? Just talk to him, see if you can work out an arrangement. You need to know how far he’s willing to go, and you certainly don’t have to rush things.”

Harry looks at Ron, who nods.

“Every artist needs his muse,” Dean adds, grinning.

Emboldened, with hope tugging on Harry’s heart like sunbeams, and the thought of being with Draco again is enough for him to slap his palms on his thighs and stand up, his conviction and excitement gathering momentum with every passing second. It’s five on a Saturday evening, which means it’s noon at New York. Draco might be home, probably is, after his Friday late-night gigs. “Okay. I’ll go now.”

“What?” Hermione exclaims. “ _Now_?”

“Yeah, now.” He pauses, scanning the paintings, and then it finally, truly hits him. “I’m going back to New York. For Draco Malfoy,” he says faintly.  

“Well, I better call my mates at Portkey Central and see if there’s a Portkey available,” Ron says. He hurries to the Floo, the rest of them behind him. Harry disables the privacy charms, allowing Ron to throw some powder and poke his head through the green fire.

While they wait for a connection, Harry’s mind scampers away to across the pond, unable to keep the growing smile off his face. _What am I gonna say? Hey Draco, I’m back. Did you miss me? Merlin, that’s bloody lame. Maybe I’ll have time to pop by Diagon and get him those sweets that he likes—_

“Ron Weasley, from Magical Games and Sports, Ministry,” Ron says. “Hey, Eddie! Great to talk to you. Would love to catch up, but it’s urgent. When’s the next Portkey to New York?” A long pause, with Harry hanging onto every word. “For Harry Potter.” Another pause. “Yes, _the_ Harry Potter, mate.”

Harry ducks his head in embarrassment — he doesn’t fancy using his name for anything, not even for art school or his exhibitions, but he’s willing to make an exception for this. _Merlin, this is how much this means to me._

Ron slides a sideways look at Harry. “Yeah, very important. Er, life-and-death issue, you know, his saving people thing,” he fibs. “Yeah. One-way. Ten minutes? Room thirty, Portkey 56317. Right, got it. Bill it to me, yeah? Thanks, Ed, owe you a pint!” Ron closes the connection and repeats the Portkey details to them.

“I’ll pay you when I get back,” Harry says, frantically patting his back pockets to check for his phone and wand.

“Go!” Hermione says, as he grips his wand, ready to Apparate.

“Message us!” Dean calls, his words fading when Harry turns on the spot.

He lands at the Apparition point in London’s Portkey Central. He skims the signs overhead, and hurtles off to room thirty. With his friends’ blessings on his back, Harry releases a loud and giddy laugh, adrenaline and anticipation pumping in his veins. Muttering dozens of apologies and _excuse me,_ he pushes past knots of travellers, almost barrelling into a trolley stacked with luggage.

He makes it two minutes early, panting and hunching over with his hands pressed on his knees. It takes a moment, and he’s at New York’s Portkey Central. After recovering from the trans-atlantic travel, he Apparates straight to Draco’s door, not caring about what to say. He’s sure it’ll work out eventually.

Harry knocks on the door, a magical kind of hope threading through his heart. Excitement thrums in him, and he shifts from foot to foot, a fluttery sensation in his stomach. He pats his hair and wipes his glasses on the hem of his shirt.

When there is no answer, Harry's brows crease in a frown, but he doesn’t lose his grin. He knocks again. “Draco, it’s Harry! I’m back.”

Seconds pass, and doubt overcomes his enthusiasm. Harry presses his ear to the door; the only thing greeting him is a stony, eerie silence. _This isn’t right_. There are no footsteps, no sounds coming from the telly, no singing, nothing. _Maybe he’s out. Yes, he must be out for lunch._

Still, with growing alarm, Harry recalls Draco’s balcony and Apparates there. He slides open the full-length balcony window and hurries inside the living room. 

What he sees there triggers a cold dread pooling in the pit of his belly.

Everything is gone.

All of Draco’s things have vanished — leaving only white cloths draped over furniture and drawn blinds.

“No,” Harry murmurs, shaking his head slowly in disbelief.

He covers the flat, gaze darting from room to room, becoming increasingly desperate when all he sees is empty space and pristine white cloths. “No, he has to be here! He can’t have left, he can’t…” His head is whirling, the stuffiness of the house like the fog filling his head. With a dry mouth and a glassy stare, Harry holes up at a corner at the wall of the living room, where Draco’s guitars used to be. “Maybe the rent got too expensive, and he moved out. Yeah, that’s it,” he mutters, as if saying it aloud makes it true. 

He takes a few deep breaths to steady himself before Apparating to the only place that might have some answers. Harry steps out of the dark alleyway and rushes to Mona’s. They’re open on Saturdays for lunch, and when Marjorie sees him, she puts down the glass that she’s polishing and calls out his name.

“Draco. Where is he?” Harry asks, his hands clenching on the bar.

“I was hoping you’d come back! I thought you’d know!” Marjorie cries, worry and panic trembling in her voice. “Two weeks after you left, he called me and said he’s not coming in anymore. Almost three years singing for us, and he left, just like that. Oh, Harry, what’s happened?”

Harry doesn’t know what to say to that. He can’t offer anything helpful, so he wanders out of Mona’s in a daze, consumed by a slow, pressing despair. With dragging footsteps, he lets his legs take him back to the alleyway, and with a splintering heart, he Apparates to a quiet corner near the Brooklyn Bridge Lookout. He goes to the mesh where the love locks are. _At least I’ll always have this—_

Their lock is gone.

The absence of the lock — the only physical proof of their time together — stings like promises of a romance abandoned.

His hands limp and his knees weak, Harry crumples to the ground, his eyes glazing over at the unfamiliar lock shared between Brittany and Adam that has replaced _their_ lock. He takes out his phone, wanting to retrieve his messages with Draco, but he deleted them all on a particularly bad night.

Harry calls Draco, receiving a mechanical female voice in response.

_“Sorry, the number you’ve just called is unavailable. Please try again later.”_

He lets the message loop as he casts a distant stare at the East River through the mesh.

Was it all a dream?

No. No, it can’t be. His memories of Draco are so vivid, his feelings for him so genuine. Just an hour ago, he was at home in his studio, surrounded by Draco. He was so excited and happy at the prospect of seeing him again, but now, everything has veered horribly off-course. Out of all the worst-case scenarios, the last thing he expected was Draco to leave, to continue running and hiding. A hard knot of worry tightens in his chest, and Harry lowers his chin, shoulders drooping.

When it finally sinks in that he’s never going to see Draco again, he hangs up and rests his phone on his knee, not caring when it clatters to the ground. It’s chilly, much colder than last time, but he doesn’t care.

Harry looks as lost as the Draco in his Times Square painting.

_You told me about winter in New York. I’m back, and it’s almost winter, but where are you? Where are you, Draco?_

Harry thinks of the Empire State Building, of a kiss so gentle and sweet that his heart breaks apart all over again.

* * *

Harry forces a smile and shakes his head, refusing the waiter’s offer of champagne. He wanders around Galerie Green — a gallery in Muggle London run by Malcolm, a Muggle-born. His exhibition is winding down — it’s the last hour of the last day, and honestly, he’s relieved that it will be over soon. He isn’t one for small talk and rubbing shoulders. Things were more hectic on the first few days, with all of his friends, old classmates and the media descending on the gallery. The Slytherins visited too, and Harry didn’t miss the way Pansy’s eyes sharpened at the blond in every painting. She frowned at Harry, but he merely shrugged and stared back with wide eyes. Articles about his exhibition ventured suggestions about the identity of the blond bloke — a new lover, maybe? — but he paid the gossip rags little mind. 

Harry stops in front of a bleak, black-and-white painting consisting of a bloke sitting on the pavement outside a hotel, his head in his hands and his luggage beside him. The real hotel — quirky and flashy — does exist in New York, but when he painted this, he wasn’t in the mood to create something happy and colourful.

This was his first piece after his last disastrous visit to New York, three months ago.

The brush strokes are broad, careless and angry, almost violent in some places.

Harry looks at it for a long time and sighs, recalling the anguish and defeat raging through him as he scrawled on the canvas. It’s not his best work, but the emotion shuddering through the painting is undeniable.

A few weeks after that day, Harry owled Draco, hoping for some assurance that he was alright. Besides the letter, he attached an invitation to the exhibition. Unlike other shows, he decided to hold it at a Muggle gallery, in case Draco wasn’t comfortable with the magical world.

He never received a reply.

Harry is so lost in his reverie that he’s startled when Malcolm tells him everyone has left. Together, they spend the next thirty minutes dismantling the exhibition and shrinking the remaining paintings into a briefcase. Ron and Hermione arrive soon after, with takeaway for them.

Before they’re due to leave, the three of them sit outside, on the steps of the closed gallery. Harry gazes at the sky, disappointment weighing heavily in his chest despite telling himself to expect nothing.

Draco never did come to the exhibition.

If only Harry’s magic were strong enough to wish Draco into existence beside him. If only he could hear his lovely voice and his guitar now, on the last day of his show, if only Draco would hurry around the corner, saying that he’s sorry for missing everything, but he’s here now.

If only.

Even though Christmas and New Year has come and gone, even though the rawness of his longing and sadness has faded in intensity, Harry still thinks of Draco every day, holding tight onto Draco’s smile to tell him that it wasn’t just a dream.

A part of Harry thinks that a corner of his heart will always be reserved for Draco.

Hermione holds his hand. “I’m sorry, Harry,” she whispers. Ron echoes her sentiments, and casts a warming charm around them when Harry shivers.

They know what Draco’s absence means.

Because if this doesn’t bring him back, then there is nothing else that Harry can do.

Harry gazes at the sad shatter of stars in the night sky, hoping that somewhere, somehow, Draco is looking at the moon and thinking of him too.

_Wherever you are, I hope you’ve finally found peace._

Harry has done all he can.

It’s time to let go.

* * *

The Red Lion is warm and lively with raucous laughter and the blare of the football game on the telly. Harry scoots closer to Ron, who is amusing them with an anecdote from work. If a grinning Harry weren’t so absorbed in Ron’s story, and if his back weren’t turned to the small stage in the corner of the pub, he might have registered the scrape of the chair on the stage, the echo of a microphone, the soft thunk of a guitar.

He might have noticed the hush of the crowd, and the clearing of a throat, magnified by the microphone.

Instead, Harry chuckles when Ron finishes his tale. He takes a long swig of beer, licking away the foam on his upper lip. Harry is about to speak, when Hermione glances behind him, frowns, and then gasps, covering her mouth with a hand.

And then, a voice — melodic, clear and strong — rings out in an a cappella, cutting through the noise of the pub and going straight to Harry's heart.

_"You're just too good to be true_

_Can't take my eyes off you"_

Harry has heard this voice in his dreams.

He goes very still, his back still turned to the stage, and he stares at his drink, at the lace of foam surrounding the lip of the tumbler, at the single bead of condensation winding its way down the glass. A silence falls in the pub, full of expectation and suspense, growing like the disbelief swamping Harry. He closes his eyes, memories of Mona's already unfurling in his mind. _This has to be a dream, because he can't be here, eight months later, in a neighbourhood pub on a Thursday night in London, singing for me._ A familiar, latent hope winds itself around his heart — a mere footnote in a long ramble of disappointment, defeat and frustration, but still there, even after all this time — that Draco is back, back for _him._ Harry doesn't want to turn around, because what if it's really, truly, too good to be true, if it's not Draco, he wouldn’t know what to—

_"But if you feel like I feel_

_Please let me know that it's real_

_You're just too good to be true_

_I can't take my eyes off you"_

This time, the voice is softer, sadder, the words faltering slightly in uncertainty.

Harry's hands clench on his beer. 

When Hermione whispers his name, he opens his eyes and focuses on the small indent carved into the wooden table. He draws in a slow, shuddering breath, releasing it in an exhale so hard that his stomach clenches. Harry twists his upper body around, but keeps his eyes down. After a shaky gulp, he presses his lips together and lifts his gaze to the stage, heart beating wildly in his chest—

There Draco Malfoy stands, guitar slung in front of him, staring straight at Harry.

Draco's lips part slightly, the microphone catching his exhale. With shining eyes and a slow smile, his body relaxes; the tightness of his shoulders ease, and his hands fall away from the microphone. His palms turn up, towards the heavens. Harry bites his lower lip, swallowing the emotion gathering in his throat.

There Draco is, just a few steps away.

Some of the patrons are glancing between them, but Harry doesn't care. Another heartbeat of hesitation, and then Draco raises his arms to card his fingers through his black hair, before resting his hands on his guitar. He strums the introduction to the song, and then he starts to sing, intense grey eyes never straying from Harry.

He sings their song for Harry, and the rest of the world falls away.

Draco's voice is as beautiful and expressive as Harry remembers; the rise and fall of the notes gliding effortlessly between pitches. A jumble of memories spool through Harry's mind — of him presenting the vinyl record to Draco, the many nights watching him perform, eating burgers and chips in front of the telly, them at the balconies in their respective flats, painting and writing songs, Draco laughing as they hold hands and stroll through Central Park…

It's been eight months since he last saw Draco, but the memories are still as vivid as yesterday, as if Harry has pressed each one carefully and tenderly onto his heart, like precious flowers preserved between pages of journals. He tried to move on from New York, he tried so _hard_ , but there were so many memories that he could never outrun them all.

Halfway into the song, Harry shifts his chair so that more of his body is tilted towards Draco. He rests an arm on the top of his chair, and pillows his head on his arm, a dreamy smile on his face as he gazes at Draco in dark-eyed rapture. Draco mirrors his smile, desire and longing turning his voice low and intimate.

The song ends, and Draco inclines his head at the applause. Harry doesn't move, except for his growing grin. Draco follows up with another unfamiliar song. Harry sits up straight when the lyrics describe a bloke with messy black hair and glasses, a smile as lovely as the stars, a laugh as bright as summer—

_"Even though he's got eyes as green as a fresh pickled toad_

_I'll still kiss him all the way from London to New York"_

Ron snickers, and Harry ducks his head, blushing at the mischievous twinkle in Draco's eyes. _He wrote a song about me. No one’s done that before._ Overwhelmed with emotion, Harry hangs onto every word, chuckling when some of the lyrics reference their time in New York. When the song finishes, Draco launches into his usual introduction.

This time, he uses his real last name.

Hermione taps Harry on the arm, and points to her seat. "Change seats?"

There's a crick in his neck, and an ache in his lower back. He gratefully accepts, and they watch Draco perform. Even though it stretches late, and they have work tomorrow, Hermione and Ron stay with Harry for the entire gig.

Draco ends his performance with "Wonderwall", his eyes lingering on Harry when the last chord rings out, before he looks away to flash a wink and a charming smile to the audience, thanking them and wishing them a good night.

Harry looks down at the table, anxious. He'll certainly approach Draco, but what's going to happen? Why is he back, and is he back for good? Why _now_? What is Harry gonna say? Maybe he really is hoping for too much—

"He's looking at you, mate," Ron pipes up, nudging Harry with an elbow. Harry lifts his head, seeing Draco turn around hurriedly and busy himself with packing his guitar into the bag.

"Right." Harry drains his beer, wipes his palms on his jeans, and pats his hair. The three of them ease out of their booth, and make their way to Draco.

"Hi," Harry says, suddenly shy. He gives a small wave, which is rather unnecessary, as Draco still has his back turned towards them.

Draco's hands pause in zipping up his bag. He straightens up, and turns around, his eyes fixed on Harry. "Good evening," he murmurs, his gaze dropping down Harry's body, as if he's taking in the changes of the past eight months. Harry does the same, and the single most striking change about Draco is the blond roots showing on his head.

_He's not hiding anymore._

A cautious hope leaps up in Harry, emboldened by the sight of a healthier Draco — the dark shadows under his eyes are gone, and he has put on a bit of weight. He still looks bloody fit, with his usual stud earrings, and two brown leather bracelets on his left wrist. His well-fitting dark-blue button-down and tight black jeans highlight the long, slim line of his frame.

"You've lost weight," Draco says. He takes a step closer and stretches a hand out, as if to touch Harry's jaw, but catches himself, withdrawing.

"Hello," Hermione says, her greeting paired with a friendly smile.

Draco drags his gaze away from Harry reluctantly. When he looks at Ron and Hermione, he visibly recoils. His eyes flicker to Hermione's left arm, where her Mudblood scar is, and even though he's as tall as Ron, Draco doesn't meet his eyes, instead propping his guitar in front of him, like a shield.

A tense silence crackles in the air. 

Hermione's smile fades, and Ron frowns. "She said hello," he points out, an edge to his voice.

"I..." Draco sighs. "It's been a long time since I've seen anyone else from my past." He nods at Harry's friends, offering a polite greeting.

"I imagine you two would have a lot to catch up on, so we'll leave you to it," Hermione says. They wish them a good night before they leave, with Hermione giving Harry a meaningful look on their way out.

"My place is just a few blocks away," Harry blurts out, and then immediately wishes he could take it back. _Sure, invite him to your home the second you see him._ "I mean, if you'd like somewhere quiet. It's rather late, and I don't know many places that're open now. If you're not keen on that, we could go to a... park, or something."

"Your home is fine," Draco says. "Lead the way."

They exit the pub and walk in silence to Harry's home. A part of him still can’t believe it — is Draco really beside him, in London? He really wants to hold his hand, but he’s not sure how Draco would take it. "I'm afraid there's no chicken roll cart here," Harry quips, drawing a laugh from Draco. With that, the mood lightens, and Harry relaxes.

They reach Grimmauld Place, and just before the worn front steps, Draco regards the nondescript facade of the house with a troubled look. "I remember this place, as a child. It was so dark and foreboding." He wrinkles his nose. "With a troll leg as an umbrella stand, if I recall correctly. I was surprised when you told me you live here." 

"Have a look first, yeah?" Harry unlocks the door with magic. He skims his fingertips over the smooth mahogany front door, so different from the original battered door with the silver serpent knocker.

The differences between past- and present- Grimmauld Place are clear the moment they step into the long hallway after the front door; gone are the thin, faded carpets, peeling wallpaper and stern, disapproving portraits of people that Harry doesn't know. He replaced the portraits with large, cheerful photographs of his loved ones, and one of his favourites is a picture of his first exhibition — of himself, radiating with pride and happiness, and all of his friends surrounding him, including the Slytherins.

Draco stops in front of that photograph, gazing for a long time at the amused smirk on Pansy's lips, Blaise's cool smile, and a laughing Greg, who has a beefy arm around a delighted Luna.

"Threw away Walburga Black's portrait and all of the house-elf heads," Harry says, grimacing.

The living room, one of his favourite places in the house, is modelled after the Burrow. There's a large welcoming sofa and a few squashy armchairs surrounding a coffee table. The colour of the walls and furniture is reminiscent of Harry’s dorm in Gryffindor Tower. He has also enlarged the windows, allowing more light to enter, and removed the thick velvet curtains that accumulated dust and made everything so dark, replacing them with white sheer curtains. Flowerpots dot the windowsills, providing a splash of colour.

"Everything’s so different. You even have a telly!" Draco exclaims.

"Yeah. It was pricey to get it set up, but definitely worth it." Harry picks up a biscuit tin from the coffee table and gestures to the house. "Took a while, but it's a place I'm happy to call home. The Weasleys and Kreacher, the resident house-elf who's at Hogwarts now, helped a lot to restore Grimmauld." He offers a chocolate biscuit to Draco, who politely refuses. "It wasn't that bad, really, some rooms just needed a good polishing and cleaning to get rid of the cobwebs and doxies."

Harry munches on a biscuit, watching Draco as he wanders around the living room. "It's wonderful," he murmurs. Draco grazes his fingertips along the clean curtains, looking out of the window and up at the moon, hanging full and round in the night sky. He turns his head, catching Harry's eyes with his own. "As if you've taken something damaged and irredeemable, and given it a new lease of life."

Harry has a feeling he's not talking about the house anymore.

"I want to see your paintings," Draco says suddenly.

"Upstairs." Harry jabs a thumb at the high ceiling. He wipes the crumbs off his T-shirt, and they climb the grand staircase leading to the upper levels. Harry points out his bedroom and the studio. "Since I don’t use the rooms upstairs, they’re under a preserving charm to keep them clean. I live alone, so the ground and first floor is more than enough, unless I have friends over," he explains, when Draco tilts his head upwards to peer at the other levels.

Harry brings him to the room next to his studio — he calls it the gallery, although it’s too small to be a proper one. The minute they enter the white room, devoid of any furnishings except for the paintings on the walls, a flood of embarrassment and shyness engulfs Harry. "They're from my last exhibition. About New York," he says self-consciously. _And you_ , he adds, although that goes without saying.

Draco props his guitar on the wall, and moves to the centre of the room, his head turning as he scans each painting — Empire State Building, Mona's, Times Square, Central Park, Brooklyn Bridge amongst others — paintings that contain Harry's treasured memories of their time together. He did sell some works, but he couldn't bear to part with these. He's expecting Draco to register shock or surprise, but instead, a lovely, pleased blush fills Draco’s cheeks. He says fondly, "I thought you'd sell everything, but you kept these. They’re my favourite ones too."

Harry blinks. "What? You've seen them before?" He tugs on Draco's hand to get his full attention, because this is so very important. "You didn’t come. Unless you saw photographs in the news or..."

"I was there. Galerie Green," Draco says, mentioning the opening date of the exhibition. "I was under a Glamour, and besides, it was easy to miss me; you were busy with your friends and the reporters. But you were distracted the entire night.” Draco’s thumb strokes the inside of Harry's wrist. "Like you were looking for someone." He draws in a breath, words hiking up into a faint question, as if he didn't dare to hope. "Like you were looking for… for me."

" _Yes."_ That single word emerges as a sound between a sigh and a sob, and Harry's composure, crumbling ever since Draco sang their song tonight, finally snaps. He lunges forward, holds Draco's face between his palms — like how he gathered their cherished memories and kept them safe in his cupped hands and his gallery — and captures Draco's lips in a messy and desperate kiss.

"Wait," Draco mumbles, pushing him away. Harry withdraws, mortified and confused. What was he thinking, throwing himself at him like that? He opens his mouth to apologise, but Draco speaks first.

"Are you seeing anyone?"

Harry shakes his head. "No."

"Good. I was afraid I would be too late."And then Draco yanks Harry close and kisses him.

Harry winds his arms around Draco's shoulders at once, his hands clasped on the back of Draco's neck. His inhibitions melting, he wastes no time in deepening the kiss, trying to imbue into his touch what he can't find the words for — unleashing his abject longing, the bittersweet intensity of his desire for Draco, the desperate need to be with him, his to kiss, his to touch and hold. Harry moans when Draco slips a hand under his shirt, tracing circles on his lower back. There’s a whiff of Draco's vanilla scent, and his heart twinges when he remembers how he avoided his favourite bakery for a while, because every time he smelled vanilla, he'd think of Draco.

"Eight months, Harry," Draco breaks off to murmur. Harry kisses his jaw, his cheeks and his nose while he talks. "Eight long months, thought of you every day..." Draco's words hitch into a gasp when Harry begins to suck on the side of his neck, just below his earrings. "Didn't want to let myself hope, because what if you've found someone, someone with less baggage and a clearer head—"

Something warm and beautiful fills Harry's heart at his reciprocated feelings. "No. How could I?" He mouths the words into Draco's skin, trying his best to kiss his insecurities and doubt away. "Hoped you were okay, missed you so much.”

Draco pulls back, his eyes shining with joy and a wide smile on his soft, luscious lips. With a possessive growl, and his arms tight around Harry's waist, Draco sweeps him into a kiss so intense, slow and luxurious that he never wants it to end.

Eventually, they pull apart, their breaths in furious, shallow synchronisation. Harry trails his palms down Draco's chest, while Draco's thumbs stroke his hips. "I went back to New York to look for you, but you left." Harry whispers, holding him closer. "I owled you after that, but you never replied."

"I'm sorry," Draco says, brushing a lock of hair from Harry's forehead. "I couldn't, not at that point in time. But I went to your exhibition, travelled from Florida—"

"Florida?"

"Yes." Draco takes Harry's hand and kisses each knuckle. "When I saw you and the paintings, I knew I had to come back, no matter how long it would take."

"I want to know everything," Harry says. Draco nods, and they make themselves comfortable: Harry summons a chaise longue from a nearby room, positioning it so that they face the Times Square painting. "What happened?" he asks.

Draco shifts around on the sofa, and Harry frowns at the closed-off way he folds his arms across his chest. Harry gently pries open his arms, and laces Draco’s fingers with his own. With his other hand, Draco twists the leather bracelets on his left wrist. He is quiet for a long time; although he’s gazing at the painting, the look in his eyes is glassy and faraway. Harry waits for him to marshal his thoughts, and after a while, Draco gives a small nod, and begins to speak.   

"I thought all I needed was time, but I was wrong. I would go to the places that I went with you, and I'd tell myself that you were here with me a while ago." He bites his lip in uncertainty, glancing at Harry. "Mona's was particularly bad. I wouldn't see you in the audience, I wouldn't walk home with you, I wouldn't…" He trails off, his chest sinking when he releases a loud sigh. "Everywhere I went, I thought of you. Wondered if you were thinking of me too."

Harry nods, the emotion thickening in his throat making it hard to speak.

Draco skates a thumb back and forth across the web of skin between Harry's thumb and forefinger. "I wanted to go home. Honestly, I did consider it before I met you again, but when you told me about Pansy and Blaise, Greg and Lovegood, things about the wizarding world… it made that desire stronger. I do miss magic, and I miss my friends.

"But it was difficult, confronting my past," Draco continues. "I was wary of doing something so drastic, so I left for Florida — somewhere sunny and bright, somewhere with no memories of you. I found someone there to talk to, a Muggle lady called Louisa. I omitted details of the wizarding world, of course, kept it as vague as possible. Things got better, to my surprise. I was advised to avoid contacting you until I sorted things out." He looks at the painting of the Empire State Building. "And then I received your invitation, and despite my sessions with Louisa, I knew I had to go."

He brings Harry’s hand up to his lips and kisses the back of his hand. "I saw your paintings, and I was so close to dropping my Glamour and approaching you, but I wasn't ready. I went back to Florida, and after a while, to London." A long pause. "To Horizont Alley."

"Alicia?" Harry asks, mentioning the name of the therapist he provided that morning when he left New York.

"Yes." Draco nods, his jaw set. "Five months on, and I'm still seeing her. I knew you frequent a pub called The Red Lion, located near Grimmauld. You mentioned it before, and it stuck with me because it sounds absolutely Gryffindor. I spent a few nights playing shows there, hoping I'd see you one day.”

“Why didn’t you come straight to Grimmauld?”

“What if I saw some bloke leaving your place? What if you chased me away?” Draco lifts his chin and pushes his shoulders back, a steely determination glinting in his eyes. “I don't regret not asking you to stay, because what would have become of us? I wasn't in the right frame of mind to take this further. I want you to get the best of me, because that’s what you deserve. I want to get better for myself."

Draco gets off the sofa, grabs his guitar, and returns to Harry's side. He pulls the zipper of the pouch on the guitar case—

"Our lock," Harry exclaims, startled. He touches the love lock painted in Gryffindor and Slytherin colours that is fastened around the zipper. He looks at Draco, who gazes at the lock fondly.

"I removed it from the Brooklyn Bridge Lookout, the last thing I did before I left for Florida. I couldn’t leave it behind." From the pouch, Draco pulls out a paper, crumpled at the edges, but still well preserved. He smooths it out and presents it to Harry.

It's Harry's first sketch of Draco, in Mona's.

Some of the lines are smudged, and there is a faint coffee stain at the corner. Harry traces the outline of Draco's figure, and then glances at his own signature and the date. It feels like an eternity ago when he first saw Draco sing.

After all this time, Draco kept the drawing close to him. 

“Draco…” Harry whispers, that single word charged with emotion.  

"I take it everywhere I go," Draco says. "When some nights get too cold and restless, and the nightmares too real and haunting, I take it out and look at it. When the sessions get too difficult, too raw..." He turns the sketch, looking at it the right way round. “I tell myself that I want to look like that, be that genuinely happy both on and off the stage." He lifts his eyes, holding Harry's gaze. "When I need someone to get me to stop running and simply hold me, I look at the drawing, and... and I think of you." He gulps. "It makes everything better, if only just for a little while."

Harry is speechless; he doesn’t know what to say to this poignant confession. So, he leads Draco to a supposedly empty patch of wall, and with a wave of his wand, he reveals the only sketch that not even his closest friends have seen.

It's a drawing of a sleeping Draco on their last morning together — the only artwork that identifies him as the blond in his paintings.

"Some days I look at it before I sleep, wishing that I'd see this, see _you,_ when I wake up," Harry says, hoping that he doesn't sound too sappy.

Draco smiles at the sketch, and then he laughs, a bright and beautiful sound. "My nose looks weird."

Harry huffs. "Yeah, it is a bit too long. Portrait really isn't my specialty." He bumps Draco's shoulder with his own. "Well, I reckon we're even then. It was a lovely song you wrote for me, especially the bit about me having eyes like a pickled toad's. Ginny would have a good laugh, if she heard it," he teases.

"I can write so many songs about you, you have no idea," Draco says, and then groans, briefly covering his face with his hands.

Harry grins. "C'mon, I dedicated an entire show to you. I should be the embarrassed one.” He moves closer to Draco, his voice low and husky. "I can spend the rest of my life listening to you sing."

Draco's beam fades, and he shakes his fringe of black hair out of his eyes. "I've still got a long way to go, judging by how I treated your friends tonight, but I am getting better." Harry holds his breath, his stomach swooping with anticipation at Draco’s next words. "I'm ready for something more. With you. I hope you feel the same, because I’d very much like to be with you.”

Harry nods, giddy with happiness. Surrounded by the paintings, he pulls Draco down to him. Just before their lips meet, he whispers, "There's nothing else that I would want more."

He kisses Draco's smile, as sweet and gentle as that night at the Empire State Building.

* * *

Summer comes early this year, and Harry and Draco pass the days with picnics at Hyde Park, admiring pop-up art exhibitions, visiting music festivals and watching musicals at theatres and live bands at pubs and rooftop bars. Draco shows no inclination to visit the wizarding world, nor does he mention the Slytherins.

With every passing day, Draco’s reliance on Dreamless Sleep dwindles. His blond roots grow out, and the blackness of his hair lightens to a chestnut brown. The effect looks rather bizarre, but Harry is pleased because of its significance.

There are days when Draco doesn’t text, and that’s okay, because Harry understands. He knows the process of healing; there were times when he couldn’t look at Ron and Hermione without suffering from flashbacks about the war.     

Harry gives him all the time he needs.

They stay in for Draco’s birthday, ordering takeaway and cuddling on the sofa, watching telly and drinking wine. Harry bakes a chocolate cake, and even though the frosting comes out wrong and it’s too sweet at the centre, Draco says it’s the best cake he’s had.

One day, Draco tentatively asks him about the Slytherins, so Harry brings them to the Red Lion on one of his gig nights. When Pansy sees Draco, she is stunned speechless.

When he starts singing, his eyes never leaving the Slytherins, she begins to cry.

She sniffles into the ends of the sleeves of her jumper at first, discreetly dashing away the tears from the corners of her eyes. When he reaches the chorus, she’s openly crying, her shoulders shaking, mascara running, heart-breaking sobs cupped in her palms. After the song, Draco quickly turns around to grab his glass of wine sitting on a tall stool behind him, but Harry catches him wiping his eyes too.

Blaise’s usually inscrutable face comes alive, his laughs and smiles dispensed freely as he watches his friend perform, and Greg claps and cheers the loudest out of them all.

Pansy storms towards Draco when he’s finished with his set and gives him an angry shove, so hard that he stumbles backwards.

_“Where have you been, you absolute tosser, and what have you done to your hair? Four years, and nothing from you, all of our returned owls, do you know how worried we were, how we thought you did something and… and…”_

Her anger deflates, giving way to relief, and she dissolves into a fresh round of sobs, heaving Draco close and crying into his chest, her hands clutching on his shirt.

When Draco holds her and kisses the top of her head, whispering apology after heartfelt apology, she cries even harder. He offers a small smile to Blaise and Greg. Blaise nods at him, and then turns to Harry.

_“The blond in your New York paintings… it was Draco, wasn’t it?”_

The next day, Harry is working on a watercolour when Draco owls over a picture of himself and the Slytherins at Greg’s place. The following night, when Draco is at Grimmauld, guitar in hand and scraps of lyrics littered in front of him, he excitedly tells Harry that he’s writing a song for Pansy and Blaise.

_“I’m singing at their wedding this winter! They want me to be their best man, too. Salazar, isn’t it wonderful?”_

Draco writes a letter to Marjorie from Mona’s, telling her that he’s alright and back in London, and he’s with Harry now. They take a picture together, and attach it to the letter. Marjorie’s reply arrives a few days later, full of relief and dozens of questions.

Harry is busy with an exhibition of his watercolours — a collaboration with two other schoolmates — over a weekend in early July. Even though he isn’t headlining the show, it’s special, because Draco is there, a proud smile on his face, standing together with Harry’s friends, and he’s so happy.

Harry is so damn happy.

Back at Grimmauld, more of Draco’s things appear — a toothbrush, an extra set of clothes, his favourite chocolates and ice-cream, his song-writing notebook and one of his guitars. Harry paints in his studio, while Draco writes his songs in the gallery beside him. When Harry asks him why he likes writing there, Draco looks up from his guitar, smiles and gestures to the artwork around him, saying that Harry’s paintings give him inspiration for his songs. 

Just like that, Harry falls for him so much more.

Draco’s sessions with Alicia are scheduled for Monday afternoons and Friday mornings, and Harry keeps himself free for a while after those sessions, just in case Draco doesn’t want to be alone. When some nights are particularly bad, Harry talks to him on the phone, even though his own eyes are closing and his voice has tapered off into sleepy mumbles.

Harry doesn’t break his promise, made so many months ago, in Draco’s flat in New York: 

_“I’ll be with you, Draco, every step of the way.”_

* * *

“Harry.”

“Yeah?”

When there’s no reply, Harry looks up from his painting. Draco repeats his name, a strangely determined expression hardening his features, as if the word gives him strength. Harry puts down his palette and brush, and goes to his side. Solemn and silent, Draco leads him to the nearest mirror, mounted on the wall along a corridor in Grimmauld. Between them and the mirror is an antique chest of drawers — Draco presses his hips against the top of the drawer, and squares his shoulders. Harry stands behind him, his confusion morphing into apprehension when Draco points his wand at the top of his own head. Draco takes a deep, pained breath, closes his eyes, and then shakily whispers a spell.

A gasp wrenches from Harry's throat when the darkness of Draco's hair slowly melts away, like shadows chased away by the light of dawn, revealing striking blond strands.

His head still hanging, Draco extends his left forearm — so clenched that his biceps are as taut and rigid as cords — showing a faint black mark. The skin around it is scrubbed red and raw, and Draco turns away from the mirror as he jabs his wand at his arm and utters another spell.

When the Glamour dissipates, Harry flinches at the sight of the Dark Mark, something he hasn’t seen in so long that it feels like it belongs to another lifetime. It triggers memories that have long since been buried, but never forgotten — the twisting serpent coiling from the skull's mouth that stained the night sky over the Astronomy Tower during the battle of the lightning-struck tower, enveloping Dumbledore's falling body in a sickly green tinge, and so many more…

Harry blinks, his paralysing vortex of memories interrupted when Draco’s right hand clamps over his Mark in a white-knuckled grip. "Look at you," Draco says in a dull, papery whisper. "The look on your face when you saw it..."

Harry swallows the sour tang in his mouth, his gaze meeting Draco's haunted eyes in the mirror. Draco goes unnaturally still, staring numbly at his own reflection, finally facing the visage that he has been fleeing from for the past four years. His wand clatters to the floor, and he lurches forward abruptly, jarring his hip on the drawers; Harry winces at the screech of the bottom of the drawers dragging on the floor.

It's like Moaning Myrtle's bathroom in sixth year all over again — Draco's pale and wan face, the despondent slump of his shoulders, the shallow rise and fall of his panicked breaths.

"This is who I am, Harry," Draco says in a resigned monotone and dull eyes. "Death Eater. A Malfoy." He paws a trembling hand through his blond hair — as memorable and dazzling as Harry remembers — before his fingertips trace beneath his eyes and skate downwards to his pointed chin. His lip curls in disgust. "Salazar, I look like him, I still look like my father..." He grimaces, averting his gaze from the mirror.

"No." Harry shakes his head vigorously. Draco has to know that he is so very different from Lucius Malfoy— " _No!_ You're not like him, nothing like him!"

"Then tell me! Tell me why I'm different, how I'm different!" Draco demands, wheeling around to face him.

"I… you…" Harry stutters, trying to marshal the whirl of thoughts buzzing in his mind like a swarm of doxies. "You're not like him…"

"You can't tell me, can you?" Draco snarls, composure snapping. Distraught, he gives Harry a hard shove and swallows a sob, his eyelids heavy with growing tears, and something in Harry’s heart breaks at Draco’s anguish. Draco swipes angrily at his eyes and turns away in shame—

Harry grabs his left arm and spins him around to face him.

He isn’t good with words, but he has to try, no matter how ineloquent he sounds. "The Draco I know, the Draco now…" Harry starts, his voice wavering, before hitching up into a growl when Draco tries to shake himself free. "He's strong. He's… resilient." He ignores Draco’s scoff and continues. “Despite all odds, he survived a war. He carved out a life in the Muggle world, in a place he knew nothing about, making friends with people he was taught since young to despise.”

Draco stops struggling, and Harry takes that as encouragement, his words increasing in volume and certainty.

"The Draco I know isn't afraid to call me out when I'm being an arse, and I like that. He writes songs and sings for me with one of the most beautiful voices I’ve heard. He's got a brilliant sense of humour and wit, and even though he’s a lot to handle sometimes, he's worth it. Worth going back to New York for. Worth a dedication to a whole exhibition too, because he's just that wonderful." Harry recalls when he fell sick a while ago, and Draco took care of him. "This Draco is caring and thoughtful, and he only shows this side to people close to him, and I'm so lucky, so bloody lucky that I'm one of those people."

Draco goes limp, and he bites his lip, unshed tears gathering in his eyes. "Harry..."

"Yes, you're a Malfoy, and you were a Death Eater. I'm not gonna ignore that, because I will never deny your past." He takes Draco's hands into his own. "But you're also a survivor, a musician, a performer. And you…” Harry’s heart is pounding hard in his chest with every confession. “You’re the blond in my paintings, my inspiration, my muse. I meant what I said that day, when we had that row in your New York flat. I'd need time, but I'll take all of you, I'd take all of your past and your mistakes and I could love you. In fact, I think I'm almost there." He swallows the lump in his throat, his insides feeling rather raw. "You're the Draco that I've fallen in… in love with." Warmth floods Harry's cheeks when Draco's eyes widen.

“Love? Did you… did you just…”

Harry gives a jerky nod. "Yeah. Yeah, that’s what I said." He pulls up a shaky laugh, and then lowers his head, scuffing the toe of his sock on the carpet. "So. Er. Yeah, that's all," he mumbles rather lamely, words directed to the floor.

"Harry," Draco says, his name floating on a faint exhale. Harry looks up to Draco's red-rimmed eyes. "I don't deserve—"

"You do," Harry insists, a landslide of emotions — protectiveness, hope, nervousness, worry, sympathy — tumbling within him. "You deserve my love, you deserve Pansy, Blaise, Greg, everyone. You deserve happiness and everything that the world can give you."   

Draco draws in a long, shuddering breath, and in a flash, he’s holding Harry close, burying his face into the crook of his shoulder, his tears soaking Harry’s T-shirt. In response, Harry makes soothing sounds and strokes his back, pressing a kiss on his cheek.

Harry sees the beauty in Draco's breakdown, and all he wants to be is his sunshine, a hope as bright as summer that lights up all of Draco's darkest corners, chasing away the ghosts of his past when he’s hurting the most. Harry wants his love to be as strong and reliable as the waves crashing on the shore, sweeping away Draco's doubt and sorrow.

"One day, I would like to return to the Manor," Draco mumbles after a long time, turning his face away to wipe his nose. A loud, quivering sigh, giving way to a voice brittle and rough around the edges. "To see their… their graves. I know you don't have pleasant memories of my ancestral home, but would you come with me, please?"

"Of course," Harry says. He’s not keen on a trip to the Manor, but he will be there for Draco. “Stay over tonight? I don't want you to be alone."

"Alright. I’ll go and wash up." Draco steps away, hiding his face from Harry.

Instead of returning to the studio, Harry goes to the living room and settles down on the sofa. Draco approaches him a while later, his face washed and looking rather sheepish. “C’mere,” Harry says, sitting up, stretching an arm out on the top of the sofa and accepting Draco into his arms. Draco rests his head on Harry’s chest, and Harry curls an arm protectively around him. 

Even though Draco keeps fiddling with his hair, and his left forearm is turned downwards to conceal his Mark, Harry is so happy and proud because Draco isn't running away anymore. "You look so much better blond," he can't help but say with a mischievous smirk.

Draco’s sombreness disappears, and he smiles, reminding Harry of a sun peeking past stormy grey clouds. "Arse," he says, pinching Harry, who laughs. "It's your birthday next week. Is there anything you'd like in particular?"

Harry opens his mouth to reply, but Draco gets there first. "Besides me singing for you?" he says, arching a brow.

Harry grins and kisses the top of Draco’s head, inhaling his lovely vanilla scent. "This." He laces his fingers with Draco’s and squeezes. "Just this."

He’d give Draco a part of his own rainbow just to be with him forever.

"Okay," Draco whispers, his voice breaking on the word. He kisses the back of Harry’s hand. "Okay," he says again, softer.

Harry cards his fingers through Draco’s soft blond hair, and he smiles when Draco makes an adorable sound of contentment and nuzzles into his chest. _Pansy was right_ — _he really likes it whenever someone plays with his hair._

It’s a romance that started across the pond, so far from home, and now Draco is back home, back in Harry’s arms, where he truly belongs. An emotion, so strong, so certain and so _real_ , surges in Harry, as overwhelming as that night in Times Square when he finally found inspiration for his collection. Harry holds Draco tighter.

_It doesn’t matter if we’re in New York or in London, I’d never be able to take my eyes off you._

* * *

**/fin**

I’m very grateful to my beta, Mollie, for her invaluable advice and her contribution — the difficult conversation at Brooklyn Bridge — to the fic. I’m not American, but I spent two weeks in New York for a holiday in 2017, and that sparked my own inspiration for this story.

Thank you for reading, and I hope that you felt for Harry and Draco as much as I did while I was writing this <3


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